


Double Take

by Sibilant



Series: Martello Family Values [1]
Category: Don Jon (2013), Inception (2010)
Genre: 'Arthur Martello' - it just rolls off the tongue, Attempted Kidnapping, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Estrangement, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, POV First Person, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a simple case of mistaken identity when Eames runs into Jon Martello in Hoboken, New Jersey. And then it becomes a not-so-simple case of family reunions, strange reveals, and deep-and-meaningfuls.</p><p>(AKA: the one where Arthur and Jon are cousins.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware: Throughout the story, Jon expresses a fair amount of latent/unconscious homophobia, and he isn't always called out on it. If this bothers you, or you feel it may bother you, I'd recommend giving this story a miss.

So this is the thing about bartending on a Sunday night: it’s got perks, as long as you can tolerate a certain amount of bullshit.

Now, people always bitch about working Sunday night - they call it the punishment shift, try to swap it for other nights, promise you all sorts of shit if you cover for them (word of advice: don’t ever believe them). And, yeah, I get that it can suck because it’s fucking _Sunday_ , but give me a slow and boring Sunday night over a balls-to-the-wall hectic Friday night anytime, because you know what doesn’t suck? Being the only bartender rostered on.

It means you get to choose the music. It means you don’t have to dodge around all the other bartenders. It means you don’t have to tell Marco to pull his fucking finger out of his ass and pour some goddamn drinks, look at all the customers, what is he stupid or something? And, best of all, it means you don’t have to pool your tips at the end of the night just to avoid someone else having a bitch fit.

(It’s not my fault that people like to tip me more, okay? Maybe if other people pulled their fingers outta their asses, they’d get more tips. Just saying.)

Anyway, my point is: tips can go a long way towards raising your tolerance level for bullshit.

Take this guy sitting at the end of the bar, for example. Came in about an hour ago. He’s English, going by the accent I hear whenever he orders a drink. Bulky guy. Could be fat, could be muscle - I can’t tell because of the clothes he’s wearing, all loose and shit. He’s got a mouth like a chick, like the girls in the best blowjob videos (that I don’t watch anymore). And he’s been staring at me ever since I walked over and asked him what he’ll be having tonight.

It’s not obvious staring, like the losers do. You know, staring at you all night because they want you, but they don’t have the balls to make a move? This guy isn’t the type to do that sort of staring - he’s got confidence, you can tell. But he watches me out of the corner of his eye, tracks me as I walk around behind the bar like he’s sizing me up. If it wasn’t for his tips, I’d probably be asking if he’s got a problem.

(Do you see what I mean now, when I say tips help raise your tolerance for bullshit?)

Then again, even if I _did_ ask him if he’s got a problem, I don't think he’d have a problem if you get my drift. But that just makes his staring a different kind of annoying.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against gay guys. I don’t think they’re pussies - I’ve got a cousin who’s gay, and he could beat anyone’s ass if they started talking shit. And I don’t think a guy thinking I’m hot makes _me_ a pussy either, because if you’re hot, you’re hot, you get me? The staring just gets to me because it makes me feel like I’m a piece of meat or something.

(Esther laughed her ass off the one time I said that. Never could get her to explain why she thought it was so funny, she was laughing that hard.)

Anyway, eventually, the guy makes up his mind about me. Or maybe I’m just not hiding my annoyance as good as I think. Whichever one it is, he gets up, grabs his drink, and walks to the end of the bar I’m standing at, polishing glasses.

I start thinking up ways to turn him down, hoping he’s not the kind of guy who takes rejection badly. (And by badly I mean making a scene because people don't go out on a Sunday night to see drama.) But it turns out that’s not necessary because the guy doesn’t hit on me. Instead, he says, “So this is where you've been hiding?”

I frown at him. “‘scuse me?”

“Rather unconventional for you, isn’t it?” the guy says, like I hadn’t even spoken. “Last I checked, you had some dull cover as a systems analyst. Although I have to admit, you aren’t half-bad at the drinks mixing—” well, I’d fucking hope I’m not half-bad, I’ve been doing this since I was twenty-one, “—so kudos to you for that. And the accent.”

It takes me a few seconds to realise what’s going on, because I’m still trying to get over the ‘not half-bad’ comment, but once it clicks, it’s like a light bulb switching on.

Remember that cousin I mentioned, the one I said could beat anyone’s ass if they called him a pussy for being gay? Well, me and him— we’re like twins. Fucking identical. I look more like him than I do my own sister. We look so alike, people used to joke that either my dad or my Uncle Nick was screwing my mom and my Aunt Maria both.

(The jokes stopped when me and my cousin learned how to throw a punch. And even when we were kids, people only made those jokes when my dad or Uncle Nick were nowhere nearby.)

So this sort of thing - total strangers coming up to me, talking to me like they know me - it’s happened a couple of times. It’s still annoying, but it’s not as annoying as guys staring at me like I’m the buffet table at the Atlantic Club, so I’m not too pissy when I say, “You got the wrong guy, English. I’m guessing you want my cousin, Arthur.”

English blinks. “ _Cousin?_ ” He stares at me for a while, and suddenly I can’t read his expression at all— until he smiles. “I suppose I do,” he says, and the smile is really more like a leer. “Want him, that is.”

Right. Should’ve figured he’d be one of _those_ friends of Arthur’s. Arthur’s got a fucking type, you know?

“Well, he’s not here,” I say. “He’s hardly ever in Jersey, but you can leave a message if you want. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

English raises his eyebrows - stares at me like I just told him Lucy Liu is actually a man. “You can get in touch with Arthur?”

“Of course I can get in touch with Arthur.” I give English a weird look. “He’s my cousin.”

Fuck knows what Arthur does for a living. My mom thinks the sun shines out of Arthur’s ass - says he’s responsible, sensible - but I don’t believe for a fucking _second_ that he’s a systems analyst. Systems analysts don’t associate with the kind of people who sometimes walk up to me, thinking I’m Arthur.

“Interesting,” English says. He sips his drink, looking thoughtful. “You know, I think I would like you to get a message to Arthur for me.”

 

* * *

 

The phone rings seven times before Arthur answers with, “This had better be important.” He’s breathing a little fast, like he had to run for the phone, or like I’d interrupted him in the middle of jerking off. I’d give him shit for it, except—

“You still doing that weird news reporter voice?” I ask. “You ashamed of being from Jersey or something?”

Arthur sighs loudly. The sound crackles over the line. “Jonny,” he says, heavy on the ‘Jon’ sound, all long and drawn out, no fake accent this time.

“That’s better,” I say. “And is it so hard to say ‘how you been?’ before you start sighing at me? You haven’t come around for a visit in months.”

“I’ve been busy,” Arthur says, like he always does. “And you sound like your mother. Or _my_ mother.” I hear some metal clicking noises, and the sound of paper being shuffled around. “Did you really call me up to talk about my accent and bitch about how I’m a lousy relative?”

“Nah,” I say, “I called you up to tell you your boyfriend’s missing you.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything for a while. Probably trying to figure out which guy I’m talking about. It’s the Martello genes, man. Doesn’t matter which way you swing - if you’re a Martello, you can pull like a fucking champion.

“He says his name is James,” I add helpfully. “Says you two met in Paris, just finished working together in Lisbon?”

“Oh, _James,_ ” Arthur says, sounding amused. “Right. What does he want?”

“I told you. He wanted me to tell you he’s missing you.” Stupid message, if you ask me, but there you go.

“...That's it?”

“Yeah, man.”

Arthur snorts. “Christ,” is all he says, and the thought hits me then: maybe this James guy isn’t a boyfriend. Maybe he’s an ex - one of those exes that doesn’t know how to let go, and Arthur’s been dodging him. Maybe Arthur changed his number, and that’s why this James hasn’t been able to get in touch with him.

I’m standing just inside the back room, and I stick my head out around the door to see if James is still there. He is. He waves at me, smiling and ignoring the brunette three seats over who’s trying to catch his eye. The brunette looks back and forth between me and James, puts two and two together, and comes up with five. She makes this prissy sort of face, picks up her purse and her drink, and stalks away. If I was still pulling randoms, I’d be pretty fucking pissed at James for cockblocking me, especially when he’s sitting at _my_ bar.

“Alright, fine,” Arthur says eventually. “Let me talk to him.”

“You sure?” I ask. “Look, Arthur— if he’s one of those stalker ex-boyfriends, I’ve got no problem telling him to fuck off, or saying I couldn’t get a hold of you—”

“It’s fine, Jonny,” Arthur says, and this time I can hear the smile in his voice, clear as anything. “Thanks, though. Let me know how much this call ends up costing, okay? I’ll transfer the money into your account.”

I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Sure. Whatever you say, man.”

When I hand the phone over, James takes it and immediately turns away from the bar, saying, “Darling!” his accent all exaggerated, before going silent, head tilted. The music isn’t up that loud tonight, so I don’t even have to strain to hear him saying, “Didn’t your cousin convey my message? It was a rather short message. And, speaking of your cousin, may I just say that he is the _absolute_ spitting image of you, which leads me to— what’s that?" Another pause, a longer one this time. Judging by James’ pout - and what kind of man fucking pouts? - Arthur’s giving him an earful.

James glances at me, then points wordlessly at an alcove beside the bar. It’s a quiet spot that some people like to use to make phone calls, rather than walk outside and risk the bouncers telling them they have to line up again. I wave a hand and nod to let him know it’s fine. James walks off, ducking his head and lowering his voice until I can’t hear him anymore. I only just manage to catch him saying, “We may have some unfinished business with—”, but a couple of girls make their way to the bar then - one blonde dressed in black, one brunette dressed in gold - and I have to turn away to serve them. They pay by card, verify it with a signature. When I take the receipt, there’s a phone number scribbled on the back. The brunette throws a smile over her shoulder as she walks off with her drink.

I smile back politely, and stick the receipt on the spike without another look.

 

* * *

 

It’s close to the end of my shift when Esther comes in. More than a couple people turn to look at her. She sticks out because she’s the only person not dressed in clubbing gear and because she’s at least ten years older than everyone else. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, though, and that’s the most noticeable thing about her. No masks, no bullshit. She’s like fucking gold in a room full of fakes.

“You’re watching that guy pretty closely,” Esther says when she reaches me. She points at James.

“He’s got my phone,” I say. I pour her a Long Island on the house. Perks of working Sunday night, after all.

Esther blinks. “You’re letting drunk customers call cabs from your phone now?”

“He’s my cousin Arthur’s boyfriend.”

“His _boyfriend?_ ” She turns to look at James again, squinting to see past the neon lights. “Your cousin has good taste,” she says finally. She turns back and rests her elbows on the bar.

“I guess.”

“You don't think he’s good looking?”

“I don’t go for guys,” I say as I start to wipe down the bar.

Esther rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, smiling. “You’ve got eyes. You don’t have to be sexually attracted to someone to think they’re good looking.” She nods back toward James. “What do you think? Does your cousin have good taste or not?”

It’s the tone she uses when she's convincing me to try Ethiopian food or whatever. This teasing, encouraging, fond tone of voice that always gets me doing what she wants. Not because I want to make her happy, because she doesn’t need me to make her happy, but because she makes shit sound fun. Like I might be missing out on something awesome if I don’t at least try it.

So I put down the bar cloth down, sighing, and squint at James. I’m looking at him in profile because he’s leaning against the wall while he talks to Arthur. He’s got his free hand on his hip, pushing his jacket away from his body, so I can see he’s kind of got a beer gut, which I don’t think looks good at all. But the pose also pulls his jacket tight against his arms, and I can see he’s got broad shoulders and good biceps. He’s got that mouth that’s as nice as any girl’s, too. It’s nicer than most girls’, actually. The whole package doesn’t do anything for my dick, but that’s not really why Esther’s telling me to look, is it?

“Yeah,” I say finally. “Arthur’s got good taste.”

Esther pats my hand. “Wow, look at that,” she says, grinning, “the world didn’t end just because you said a guy was good looking.”

I smile because I can’t _not_ smile back at her. “Keep that up, lady, and I’m cutting you off,” I say, pointing at her Long Island.

Esther laughs and toasts me with her drink. “Can't have that,” she says, and takes a sip.

James wanders back then, while I’m still smiling Esther. He hands my phone back to me, gives Esther a once-over, then looks at me again. It’s nothing like the looks we usually get. Well— if I’m being completely accurate, it’s nothing like the looks _Esther_ usually gets. She usually gets these scrunch-faced looks - you know, with the wrinkled noses and sneering? - and you can tell what people are thinking: that she’s this sad, desperate, cradle-robbing cougar, and what’s wrong with her that she can’t find a man her own age? It pisses me off sometimes, because what do they fucking know, and why do they even fucking care? But Esther doesn’t seem to give a shit, so I try not to either.

James, though. He’s not staring like that, although he’s looking at me like I’ve surprised him. He holds his hand out to Esther. “I’m James,” he says, “I’m Jon’s cousin’s boyfriend.” And he must’ve gotten my name from Arthur because I sure as shit didn’t tell him my name.

“Nice to meet you,” Esther says, “I’m Esther.” She shakes his hand, but doesn’t specify how she knows me - just gives James this knowing smile, and that really seems to please James, for some reason.

No one says anything for a few moments, and it almost turns into one of those totally awkward silences, except that’s when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the screen: Arthur.

Arthur? What? Guy gets in contact once every couple of months, if that, and now I get two phone calls in one night? Maybe the world _is_ ending because I said James was good looking, and it’s just taking its sweet ass time about it.

(Come on, I'm just playing.)

I step away to the back room again, but it’s completely unnecessary because the first thing Arthur says when I answer is, “Jon, I need to speak with E— James again.”

What am I, a fucking messenger service? Well, whatever. I walk back out and hand the phone over to James again. James takes it with a frown and turns away to have another conversation with Arthur. He keeps his back to me and Esther this time.

“Something up?” Esther asks me, but she’s watching James. I watch too, frowning as I see his shoulders tense up then relax deliberately.

“Something’s definitely up,” I say.

(Seriously _-_ systems analyst my ass.)

After half a minute, James comes back. He holds the phone out to me. “Arthur wants to speak with you.”

“You know, I’m actually working here,” I complain, but I take the phone and head to the back room again. “Yo, what’s up?”

“I need you to do something for me,” Arthur says, sounding tense. Actually, he sounds kind of constipated.

I straighten up. “Name it.”

“I’m heading to Jersey on business and I’ll be meeting James there,” Arthur says. “But he needs a place to stay for a few days, and—" he sighs, then says in a rush, "look, can you help him out with that?"

“Yeah, sure,” I say, keeping my voice easy because Arthur’s always had this habit of working himself up for no good reason. “I can give him the names of a couple good hotels in the area, no problem.”

There’s a short pause. “Uh,” Arthur says, “I was actually hoping you could help him out... more... than that.”

“Huh?” And then I get it. “Wait— you want him to stay at _my_ place? What? Why can’t he stay at a hotel or something?”

“He’s got a gambling problem. He doesn’t have the money to keep paying for a hotel.”

I raise an eyebrow, even though Arthur can’t see me. “He’s been paying for drinks all night. He's got cash.”

“I highly doubt that it’s his money.”

“Well, wherever it’s coming from, he’s got it. He doesn’t need to stay at my place.”

“Why do you always have to get so fucking perceptive at the most inconvenient times?” Arthur grumbles.

“Fucking talent.”

Arthur makes an annoyed sound.

I walk back to the doorway and stand there, looking out at James. He’s leaning an elbow on the bar and talking to Esther. Well, nodding and listening to Esther. Esther’s waving her hands around, gesturing, talking fast. Probably over-sharing, like she usually does. “The guy’s gonna cramp my style,” I say.

“Oh, for the love of—” Arthur says, before cutting himself off with a huff. There’s a long silence. Then: “Look. Just let him stay with you, okay? It’ll be for two or three days, tops, and then I’ll be in Jersey to get him out of your hair.”

“I don’t know, man…”

“Please?” Arthur says desperately. “I’ll owe you one.”

Now, the ‘please’ throws me already, but it’s the desperation that really gets to me. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t really care about a lot of people. And I don’t really care about having people owe me favours. But I do care about my family, and Arthur's family, so—

“Yeah, alright, fine,” I sigh. “He can crash at my place until you get here.”

 

* * *

 

After my shift, I drive James over to his hotel to pick up his stuff, and it turns out he’s not even staying in New Jersey. He’s staying in New York, in a hotel on the _Upper West Side_. How he ended up in New Jersey, let alone in my club, I have no fucking idea.

The hotel isn’t some dinky place either. It’s got to be at least four stars, based off the decor - all hardwood floors and antiques and shit - and James is staying near the top floor, in one of the deluxe rooms. It makes me wonder how bad his gambling problem is because he must’ve had a shit ton of cash to even get a room in the first place. And then I wonder why the hell Arthur is with this guy because it’s not like Arthur has trouble pulling. The sex must be really fucking good or something.

Esther comes along too. James surrenders the front passenger seat to her, both on the way there and on the way back, but she spends most of the time twisted around in her seat, talking to him. It’s good because this way I don’t have to keep James entertained while I drive. (Esther turns my music down, though, so she can hear James’ answers better, which sucks.) They mainly talk about travelling overseas, comparing experiences. It’s not a topic I can really contribute to since I’ve never been out of the States. Hell, I’ve never even been to the West Coast, although I’d like to go. One day, maybe, if I ever get mad paid.

“Get out of here,” Esther is saying when I tune back into their conversation. “I was there then! We might’ve walked past each other without even realising.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” James says warmly. “I’m quite sure I would’ve remembered you.”

I snort. Smooth, smooth. This guy’s a Don for sure. Esther raises an eyebrow at James. She clearly doesn’t buy his line, but she laughs and smiles anyway, because compliments are still nice, you know?

When we finally get back to my place, Esther takes up position at the kitchen counter while James looks around at my living room. “My God,” he says under his breath, looking at my shelves, “the anal-retentive tidiness is genetic.”

“Tidiness?” I look at him, confused. “You think Arthur is tidy?”

James gives me a look that’s just as confused. “You’re saying he isn’t?”

I shake my head.

See, back when we were kids, my Aunt Maria and my mom would take turns looking after me, Arthur, and Monica. Whenever we went to Arthur’s place, me and Monica would have to kick piles of Arthur’s clothes and stuff out of the way before we could even get into his room. The only time he cleaned his room was when he knew people besides our family were coming over. That never changed, even as we got older.

James looks overjoyed to hear that Arthur isn’t a neat freak, which makes me wonder how long he's actually known Arthur. Then again, what do I know? Last time I saw a place Arthur was living in, he was in college. (His side of the dorm was still a mess.) Maybe he’s learned to clean up after himself since then.

“I don't have a spare room, so you’ll have to sleep on the couch,” I tell James.

“That’s fine,” James says. “I’ve slept in far worse conditions.”

I doubt that. Not after seeing the hotel he was staying at, and his rich guy manners. He hasn’t once said thanks for me driving him around or being willing to put him up for the next couple of nights. He’s acting like he’s— fuck, what’s the word? Entitled. He’s acting like he’s entitled to all of this.

I don’t say anything about it, though. Bitching people out isn’t exactly my style. I go to the linen closet instead, pull out some sheets and spare pillows, and start making up the couch.

“Oh, I can take care of that,” James says, as I tuck a sheet over the couch, but you can tell it’s one of those fake polite offers, like how my mom's friends say _oh, you really don’t have to_ when she brings out the coffee and cake.

“It’s no problem,” I say. Judging by how sloppily he’s dressed - tie crooked, with a shirt and jacket that don’t fit right - James would do a shit job of making up the couch anyway. He’d probably just lie down on the bare couch with a pillow and a blanket, and end up sweating all over the leather.

Shit, just thinking about it is disgusting.

“It’s best to leave Jon to it,” Esther says, smiling. “He’s very particular about this sort of thing.”

“Well, _that_ sounds familiar,” James says. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He retreats back to the kitchen counter and takes a seat beside Esther, leaving me to it.

 

* * *

 

I’m woken up in the middle of the night when a beam of light falls across my face.

I grunt and crack my eyes open a little, squinting because the light is mad bright. I roll onto my side, toward the windows, wondering what’s up with the blinds—

And I nearly piss myself, because Jesus fucking Christ, _James is standing in my bedroom._

“The fuck are you doing in here, man?” I say, pulling my blanket closer to me.

Now, look, I don’t believe that shit about gay guys having no self-control and wanting to fuck every dude they see. I mean, I definitely don’t want to fuck every chick I see, so why would gay guys be any different? But I do look like Arthur. What if James is confused because of jet lag? That’d be all kinds of fucked up.

James blinks at me, but doesn't say anything - just waves at me to be quiet and turns back to the window. He cracks the blinds open a little more and peers out.

“Man, seriously. What the fuck are you doing in here?” I kick the blanket away since James doesn’t seem like he’s going to jump on me. “I don’t mind you staying here or anything—” well, I do, actually, but it’s for Arthur, “—but this is my fucking room.”

James frowns and steps back from the window, letting the blinds fall shut. The room goes dark.

I blink the after-images away, scowling. “I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what you’re—”

“I thought I heard a— something,” James says. He sounds annoyed, and what’s the fucking deal with that? If anyone has a right be annoyed, it should be me.

“You heard a something,” I say, voice flat.

“I thought I heard something out on the fire escape,” James says. “And I saw a shadow through the living room window.”

Shit, is Arthur’s boyfriend a junkie, freaking out at shadows? “We’re on the third floor. It was probably just a cat, man.”

“Right. Of course,” James says. I can just make out the shape of him, moving toward the bedroom door. “My apologies for bursting in and startling you.”

“More like creeping in and freaking me out,” I mutter, pulling my blanket back up. I don’t lie down or close my eyes until James closes the door and I hear the thump of him throwing himself back onto the couch.

Seriously, what does Arthur fucking see in this guy?

 

* * *

 

The next morning, James is up before I am.

It surprises the hell out of me because I figured him for the type of guy who sleeps in until someone kicks him out bed.

I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, which... makes me a little uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. I don’t have guests over much. I mean, my boys stay over sometimes when it’s late and they’ve had a little too much to drink, and I used to have a new girl in my bed every weekend, but that’s different. I know my boys, and the girls… well, they didn’t really leave the bed, you know? James isn’t one of my boys, and I’m definitely not fucking him, so it’s weird having him walk around my place when I’m not awake.

I find him in the kitchen when I walk out. He’s eating toast and wandering around, and I’m instantly pissed because he’s just walking around with that piece of toast - no plate, no napkin, no nothing. There are crumbs on the counter, and I bet there are crumbs all over the floor too. Annoyed, I walk over, grab a dish towel, and start sweeping the crumbs off the counter and into my hand.

James turns around and looks at me, surprised. “Good morning.”

“Yeah,” I say, still sweeping. “Morning.”

There’s another pause. “I suppose if I said I was going to see to that after I was done eating, you wouldn’t believe me?”

“I believe you, man,” I say. I don’t try that hard to sound convincing. “It’s just— habit for me.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Of course.” He takes another bite of toast, then slowly - _really_ slowly - cups his other hand beneath the toast to catch the crumbs. I give him a look, and James gives me a happy smile. It’s the smile of a shit stirrer.

“You know,” he says, still smiling, “you look just like your cousin when you’re glaring like— oh, don’t give me that face,” he adds, when I step back without thinking. “I’m not in the habit of trying to seduce straight men. It’s frightfully déclassé.”

English fucker doesn’t even speak English.

But, okay, yeah, he’s got me there. It’s still pretty annoying to get called out, though, especially by someone who’s left crumbs all over my kitchen, so I don’t say anything. Just shake the crumbs into the trash can, then grab my protein powder out of the cupboard.

“I’ve got today off,” I tell him, as I scoop the powder into the blender. “But I have stuff to do and I’m going out tonight as well, so...” I look up at James, expectant, but he just gives me a polite nod and doesn’t say anything.

Damn it.

I clear my throat. “See, the thing is, I don’t have a spare key—” (I do, actually, but like hell I’m giving it to him) “—so if you wanna head out, I’m not gonna be back until pretty late. I dunno if there’s someone else you can crash with or—”

“Oh, there’s no need to trouble yourself over me,” James says, waving a hand. “I actually have plenty of work to do.” He points at a laptop and a stack of files he’s set up on my coffee table. “I doubt I’ll be going anywhere today.”

I stare at the laptop, trying not to make a face as I think of James sitting in my apartment without supervision.

 _This is a favour for Arthur,_ I remind myself, _and Arthur is family._ I force myself to smile. “Great. I’ll see you later then.”

 

* * *

 

My days off usually go like this: go to the gym in the morning, go out with Esther or my boys afterwards, and then some downtime in the evenings (unless Esther’s come home with me or I’ve picked up a girl for the night).

It might sound kinda rigid, but believe me, I used to be a lot more rigid than that. I’m switching things up a bit  _within_ my routine.Like, I used to only do weights and cardio at the gym, right? But these days I’m trying out other shit. Basketball, indoor soccer, swimming— I even tried yoga once because the chick at the front desk was cute and teased me into trying it.

(It’s not my thing.)

They're not huge changes or anything, but they're something. Baby steps and all that.

Today, though, I'm in the weights room. Just because I'm trying out new shit, it doesn't mean I'm gonna let myself turn into a shrimpy motherfucker.

By the way, this is another advantage of working weekends: you pretty much get the gym to yourself because everyone who works a regular nine-to-five, Monday to Friday, is holed up at work. Now, that’s no good for the people who use the gym as a place to pick up, but I’m not one of them, so the shits I give are practically zero.

There’s only me, another guy on the leg press, and one of the trainers wandering around the room, inspecting equipment.

When I’m close to finishing my current set, the trainer walks over to me. He must be one of the seasonal workers because I’ve never seen him before. He’s kinda scrawny for a trainer, but hey, maybe he specialises in cardio.

“Mr. Martello?” He says when he gets close. His name tag says ‘Phillip’.

"Yeah?" I set the dumbbell down and straighten up. I’m pretty surprised he knows my name, but then I figure he’d just been watching the computer when I scanned myself into the gym. It’s not like there’s a lot of people to keep track of this morning. "Something the matter?"

"Oh, no,” Phillip says, waving his hands. “Nothing major. It's just the men's showers are out of order today—"

“What, all of them?”

Phillip shrugs and gives me a helpless smile. “Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it? If you need to use the shower, you'll have to use the sauna showers. Do you know where they are?" He gestures toward the door. "I could show you if—"

"Nah, I know where they are," I say, waving a hand and turning back to my weights. "Thanks, though."

“Right, right.” Phillip nods and backs away. “If you need anything, I’ll be around.”

And he seriously is. He comes over every ten or fifteen minutes, always with that dopey little smile and something to say. He reminds me about the sauna showers at least three times, and that’s so fucking weird that I’m ready to yell at him to fuck off the next time he walks up to me.

The opportunity comes when I head to the lockers to grab a protein bar, and, sure enough, Phillip follows me.

I take a breath, _fuck off_ at the ready—

And then my phone rings.

I dig my phone out from the bottom of my bag and look at it. The screen says ‘Mom’.

"Sorry, man," I say, holding up the phone and stopping Phillip-the-sauna-spokesman in his tracks. "Gotta take this."

Phillip looks hugely pissed off at the interruption, which is just— what the hell, you know? I give him a polite nod and move away so I can answer the phone in semi-privacy.

“Hey Mom. What’s up?”

“Your father’s gone to work!” My mom says, without even saying hello.

“...okay?”

“It’s _Monday_. We got that new lounge set delivered on the weekend, but your father didn’t have time to move it all until today, and now he’s gone to work because of some... emergency,” my mom says. There’s this strain in her voice that makes her sound like she’s about to die. “I need you to come over and finish moving it all for me.”

I pause for a second. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t love my mom, or that I don’t wanna help her, it’s just… "Do I have to do it right now?"

"It’s _Monday,_ ” my mom says again.

I don’t say anything. I’ve got no idea why that’s so important.

“Remember?” my mom says, and it’s obvious from her tone that I really, really should. “Nina and Kathy always come over Monday afternoon, and the lounge room is a mess, and there are boxes _everywhere._ The afternoon’s going to be a disaster!"

"Okay, okay," I say, aiming for soothing. "Relax. I'll be there in twenty."

Just like that, my mom's all sunny again. “You’re a good boy, Jonny."

"Yeah, I know."

I wait, but she doesn’t hang up immediately like she usually does. Instead:

"But you weren't at church again yesterday,” she says. “And you didn't come to dinner last night. Jonny, is everything—”

“I was working last night,” I say quickly. “I told you that, remember?”

“You never used to work Sundays.”

“Yeah, I know. But I'm trying to save up a little, so…”

“Well,” my mom says, “that’s good. Responsible.”

That word sets off alarm bells in my head.

“You know,” my mom goes on, way too casually, “your Aunt Maria and Uncle Nick are on vacation in Hawaii at the moment.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“They’re staying at the Hilton in Waikiki right now, but they’re leaving in a few days to go to Maui. They’re going to visit one of those beaches, you know the ones with the black sand? And Maria said they might even try snorkelling.” I’m about to ask her why she’s telling me all this, but then she saves me the trouble by saying: “Arthur paid for the entire trip.”

Oh man, here we go.

“He’s such a sweet boy,” my mom sighs. “He offered to pay for tickets for me and your dad as well, can you believe it? We didn’t accept, of course. That’d just be too much, spending Arthur’s money like that.”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, doing my best to stuff down my annoyed groan and come up with something that'll distract her. But shit, the only thing I can think of now is Arthur. “Hey, I, uh— I actually spoke to Arthur the other day.”

“Did you?” my mom says, all happy again. “How is he? What’s he doing now? And when is he coming back to visit?”

Never, if it was up to Arthur, I think.

"He's fine. Working, I guess. He sounded busy." I fiddle with my gym bag for a few seconds. "He's coming to Jersey on business in a couple days."

" _He is?_ " I can just hear her clapping over the phone in joy. "Jonny, make sure he comes to dinner. I want the both of you here for dinner this week."

"I'm working Sunday night again—"

"Thursday night, then. Will Arthur be here by then?" my mom doesn't even wait for me to answer before adding: "Your sister will be here as well! Oh, it'll be like a mini-family reunion. Such a shame your aunt and uncle are in Hawaii—"

But not _too_ much of a shame, you know? Because now my mom will get to give them an update on their own son, who they haven't seen since last Christmas.

"I'll tell him about dinner," I say. "But I don't know if he'll be here by—"

"Don't just tell him about dinner," my mom replies, "make _sure_ he comes. Call me whenever he arrives and bring him around. I'll make sure dinner's ready. I mean it when I say I want the both of you at my dinner table this week."

"I will, I will. I'll do my best, but c'mon, you know what Arthur's like."

My mom _hmmphs_. "More like what both of you are like. But I can be just as stubborn as you two. Dinner. This week. No excuses."

I only let the sigh out when she finally hangs up.

The instant he sees me put my phone away, Phillip comes up to me again, his smile now weird and strained at the edges. Jesus, is he getting paid commission from people using the gym showers or something?

 _I don’t wanna use the fucking sauna showers, bro, so quit insisting - it’s making you look_ really _gay,_ I want to say— and then it hits me.

Man, Phillip is probably one of Arthur's random hookups. Like I said, Arthur hasn't been back since Christmas, but he tends to stick in people's memories. Dudes' memories, especially. Before he left for college, he always seemed to have some sad-eyed motherfucker trailing after him, hoping for a bit of attention outside of the bedroom. Or wherever it was that Arthur took guys to screw around. Probably not his bedroom, since his parents still think he's fucking straight as anything.

Anyway. Back to Phillip.

I put my hand up, stop the guy in his tracks. "Look, man," I say, as nicely as I can, "if this is about Arthur, I can't help you."

Phillip's mouth drops open and his eyes practically pop out of his head.

Yeah. See? I knew it. I almost feel sorry for the guy, but he's a grown ass man, you know? I doubt Arthur was giving him some load of bullshit about calling him later, so if Phillip's hopes are up, it's his own fault.

Phillip looks around, panicked. "How did you—?" His hands clench into fists.

"Whoa, fuck." I raise both my hands. "Relax, bro. I'm not gonna say anything about— y'know. Take it easy."

Phillip doesn’t take it easy. For a second there, he's got this look on his face, like he's gonna do something stupid like try to punch me out. And then he looks around, spots the other guy (still going all out on the leg press). He seems to remember then that we're in public, and that punching out a gym member probably isn’t that great for business.

I walk backward to the exit, hands still raised to show I’m all harmless and shit. "Sorry about Arthur, man," I say. "If you want my advice, you're probably better off looking at other dudes if you want something long term." Either that, or he needs to turn himself into James.

Phillip's eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. "Wait, what?" he says, but I've got no time to explain (and, to be honest, I don't actually care that much).

As the sliding doors slip closed, I see Phillip pull a cell phone out of his pocket and call someone, eyes cold as fuck.

He doesn't take his eyes off me the entire time.


	2. Chapter 2

Helping my mom move her new furniture takes hours.

Correction: moving the furniture _for_ my mom takes hours.

Literally.

It feels even longer than that because she keeps reminding me about Arthur and dinner, grills me on what I’m gonna do with myself now that I’ve finished my degree, and drops not-so-subtle hints that my dad could pull some strings and get me a job at his workplace, if I want.

(I really, really don’t want.)

As I’m pushing one of the armchairs two inches toward the dining table, I’m hit by this fucking vision or something, right? Like, I see me sitting at the head of the table, like my dad does now. Bitching about work and how I don’t get enough commission for all the sales I make, eating the dinner my wife made, and ragging on my kids for not living up to… well, whatever the fuck they’re supposed to be living up to. Again and again, every night, until I’m old and fucking grey.

A year ago, the thought wouldn’t have bothered me or anything. That’s just what you do when you get older, right? I mean, that’s what I used to think.

Now though? Shit’s just straight up depressing.

I get away eventually, after eating a massive serving of leftovers. If there’s one thing Irish and Italian moms have in common, it’s this crazy need to feed anyone who walks through the door. That and getting mad offended if you tell them you’re not hungry.

(Trust me, it’s not worth arguing over. Just eat the food.)

By the time I get back to my place, I’m already half an hour late, and I still haven’t showered or gotten changed for the night. It’s not that big a deal, my boys aren’t anal about punctuality or anything, but that’s not the point, you know?

When I walk through the door, James is the first thing I see. He’s still sitting on my couch, hunched over his laptop at the coffee table. He doesn’t look up when I come in.

"Everything going okay?" I ask as I walk past. "You got everything you need?"

"Hmm?" James doesn’t take his eyes off his screen. "Oh, yes, everything is fine." He types something out quickly.

I nod, start to move on— and that’s when I spot it.

You know how Esther said I was kinda particular? She wasn’t kidding, yo. I’ve got a place for everything. I use my Swiffer every week, and I always keep my floors clear of junk besides.

So when I spot the wrapper from Pino’s - the deli around the corner from my gym - sitting on the floor, beneath the couch James is sitting on? I know I didn’t leave it there, and I know it definitely wasn’t there last night.

"The hell is that?" I point at the wrapper.

James looks down, then back at me. "It’s a paper bag. Have you not seen one before?"

 _Smart ass._ "What’s it doing there?"

"Ah," James says. "Yes. No leaving a mess. My apologies." He scoops the wrapper up and stands.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." I get in his way, one hand up. "Not so fast. How’d it get there if you’ve been sitting here all day, working on your computer?" I narrow my eyes. "You _have_ been here all day, haven’t you?"

James’ expression goes a little blank. "I had it delivered."

I give him a look. "That place is run by a guy who’s like a thousand years old. He doesn’t do delivery."

"Worth a shot," James sighs.

"Worth a— Jesus, did you leave my apartment unlocked so you could go get a fucking _sandwich_?"

James holds up a finger. "It was a focaccia, actually—"

"Fuck your focaccia!"

"—and _no_ , I didn’t leave your apartment unlocked. Arthur did warn me that people in these parts are somewhat... neurotic about household security."

Neurotic. Fucking Arthur, man. It’s not neurotic if people are actually looking to break into your place. "How the hell did you get back in if you didn’t leave the door unlocked then?"

There’s a long, long pause. I stare at James. He stares back at me, expression blank again.

Oh no.

Oh hell fucking no.

 

* * *

 

"I want him out of here, Arthur. You hear me? Fucking out. The fuck is wrong with you? All those goddamn brains and you still have the shittiest fucking taste in guys, what the fuck."

 

* * *

 

"Pick up the phone, fuck face."

 

* * *

 

" _Pick up the motherfucking phone, Arthur._ "

 

* * *

 

"You better not be deleting these messages, or I’m gonna kick the shit outta you when you get here."

 

* * *

 

Message number nine or some shit, Arthur finally calls me back.

He’s out of breath again, and he sounds even more pissed off than the last time I called. "Jesus, Jonny, what the fuck happened?"

It’s been an hour, so I’ve had plenty of time to get good and pissed off. "What the fuck happened? _What the fuck happened?_   I’ll fucking tell you what the fuck happened—"

"Can you tell me without the dramatics?"

"Go suck a bag of dicks, Arthur."

"Would if I could."

"...that’s fucking gross, man."

Arthur sighs. "Look, are you going to tell me what happened or not?"

"Fuck you and your asking for favours," I say. "I want your goddamn boyfriend out of my place. Pay for him to stay somewhere else, have him find a little cardboard box to sleep in, he’s not staying here."

"For God’s sake, Jonny, if you don’t tell me what happened in the next five seconds, I’m hanging up—"

" _He broke into my fucking place._ "

Sudden silence from Arthur.

"Hello?" I say. "Are you there? Did you fucking hear me? I said—"

" _Yes_ , I’m here, I heard you. Christ. Just give me a—" Arthur sighs, long and noisy, and mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like 'God give me strength'.

"What was that?"

Another sigh. "Nothing. I’ll talk to him—"

"No. No talking, just fucking get him out of here."

"Jonny, it’s— he’s just like that sometimes," Arthur says, sounding beyond fed up. "He picks locks for the hell of it. He doesn’t do it to steal, so—"

"He picks locks for _fun?_ "

See? See what I mean? Who dates someone who does shit like that? Systems analyst my balls.

"Fuck you and your favours," I mutter again. "What’ve you done for me lately anyway?"

"That how it is with you these days?" Arthur asks. "I thought family was important to you."

"Hey, you don’t get to do that," I snap. "Not you, of all people. Family _is_ important to me. But so’s not having all my shit stolen by every crackhead who comes past and sees my door is unlocked."

"You live in that bad an area?"

"No, but— hey, don’t change the goddamn subject." I look over at my bedroom door, suspicious. It’s closed, but I wouldn’t put it past James to be standing on the other side, listening in. "Look, are you going to get him out of here or not?"

"Not," Arthur says immediately. "Listen," he says, raising his voice over my swearing, "I need him to stay there, okay? Just for a few more days."

" _Why?_ "

"It’s too complicated to explain over the phone," Arthur says. It comes out kind of muffled, like he’s rubbing his face while he’s talking. When we were in school, he always did that when he was beyond exhausted.

"You been sleeping okay?" I ask. It’s not that I’ve suddenly forgotten about Arthur’s fucked-in-the-head boyfriend. I’m just checking up on my cousin, you know?

Arthur laughs weirdly. "It feels like all I do is sleep these days." He breathes out in a loud _whoosh._ "Look, I promise I have a very good reason for wanting James to stay at your place, okay? You know I wouldn’t ask for no reason."

"Yeah, but what’s the reason?"

"I just told you—"

"Too complicated to explain over the phone, yeah, yeah." And, just like that, I’m annoyed with Arthur again. It never used to be like this. Arthur never used to be such a secretive motherfucker.

"Look, I’m sorry about the lock," Arthur says. "I really am. I’ll sort James out when I get to Jersey. Okay? Just take it easy. As best as you can. You’re going out for drinks with Danny and Bobby tonight, aren’t you? Something about Bobby getting a new job?"

"Promotion,” I say. “And how the hell did you know that?"

“Facebook.”

Man, can you believe this guy? “You can’t ever make time to visit, but you can keep track of when I’m going out?”

“Checking Facebook is a lot easier than taking time off work.”

Taking time off work. _Psh_. Like he’s got a regular nine-to-five or something. “Whatever, man.”

I think I can hear Arthur grinding his teeth together.

“Just— leave James to me, okay?" he says eventually. "Go out, have a good time. Tell Bobby I said congratulations.”

 

* * *

 

Going to a bar on a Monday night is weird.

Actually, going out on a Monday night is weird, period. But when you work in the service industry, weekdays are your weekend and weekends are your weekdays.

(Keep that in mind next time, before you go to give your bartender a fucking earful because you ordered whisky and ’it’s not the whisky you prefer’. The people you’re shouting at are missing out on their weekends so you can have a good time on _your_ weekend.

Also, next time? Give a fucking brand, or at least a type of whisky. Or, even better, don’t order whisky if you don’t know what you’re fucking doing. Otherwise I’m just gonna pour you a shot of JD and call it a night.)

But even though going out on a Monday night is weird, it’s also kinda nice.

The crowds are smaller, if there are crowds at all. You meet different sorts of people, rather than just the Friday night looking-to-hook-up people. And, because it’s a Monday night, it means going clubbing _isn’t_ the number one option.

(Variety is nice. I’m starting to appreciate it.)

Bobby picked the place tonight, not Danny, so we’re meeting up at a lounge bar, not a dive bar. When I arrive, almost two hours late, I find them sitting at a table near the bar, people-watching and drinking. Well, Bobby’s people-watching and sipping a Manhattan. Danny’s just fucking drinking.

" _Jonny boy,_ " Danny almost shouts when he sees me. He sways as he stands up from his seat. People sitting nearby look around - some of them amused, some annoyed. Bobby grabs Danny by the back of his belt and pulls him back down.

“’bout time,” Bobby says casually, as I walk over. He nudges a chair out for me with his foot. “What kept you?”

I take the chair and sit down, muttering, "Long fucking story."

"So give us the Cliff’s Notes while we wait for food," Bobby says. "Danny boy here needs something in his stomach that’s not fucking liquid."

"Fuck off." Danny drains the last of his drink. "I can hold my drink."

"It ain’t whether you can hold your drink that concerns me," Bobby replies. "It’s what you do _while_ you’re holding your drink." He signals for a waitress. "Pizza okay with you guys?"

I snort. "I’m Italian. You gonna ask me if I’m okay with pasta next?"

"Shit, son, that’s stereotyping,” Bobby says, and that starts off a round of shit talk that lasts for about fifteen minutes, with a pause to order food and drinks.

When we finally knock it off, I start thinking about James and his fucking lockpicking again. That gets me thinking about Arthur, which leads to—

“Oh hey, Arthur says congratulations on the promotion,” I say.

“Arthur? Your cousin Arthur?” Bobby grins. He and Arthur got along pretty good, in high school. “How’s that fucker doing?"

"Fine, as far as I can tell." I lean back in my seat, arms crossed. "His boyfriend’s staying at my place right now."

Danny scrunches his face up and says, “The fuck? How did that happen?” at the same time Bobby says, “You don’t sound happy about it.”

I spread my hands. “No fucking idea. Guy just shows up while I’m working, and suddenly I’ve got Arthur on the phone asking me to let the guy stay at my place.” I pause as the waitress brings our pizza and drinks and sets them down on the table. “And no, I’m not fucking happy about it.”

“Is it because of the... y’know.” Danny lowers his voice. “The ass fucking thing?”

I stop in the middle of grabbing my drink. “The fuck, man? I don’t give a shit about that. It’s not my ass he’s fucking.”

“You and Arthur are practically identical, though,” Danny says, at the same low volume. “Like, it’d make total sense if you’re not happy about being alone with—”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” I say loudly. Hearing someone else say it makes the idea sound twice as stupid. “Jesus Christ.” I grab my drink and take a long pull. “I’m not happy about it because I’m pretty sure he’s a fucking criminal.”

Bobby raises his eyebrows. "Whoa, for real?"

"What kinda criminal?" Danny asks, shovelling a slice of pizza into his mouth.

"Yeah, for real," I say. "And why would it fucking matter what type of criminal he is?"

Bobby raises a finger. "Actually, Danny might have point."

" _Thank you,_ " Danny says.

"Are we talking criminal like a pot dealer or criminal like an axe murderer?" Bobby asks. "There are, like, degrees of acceptability, man."

"We’re talking criminal like breaking and entering," I say. "What’s the degree of acceptability for that?"

Bobby snorts. "Arthur always did like ’em kinda rough." Danny nods in agreement.

"The guy’s not rough. He talks like the Queen of England and spends cash like it’s magic."

"So he’s classy rough," Bobby says. "Even more Arthur’s type." He settles back in his chair and raises his glass to his lips. "Speaking of types— potential at six o’clock, your position,” he says, nodding at me.

’Potential’ means a chick potentially checking me out. Nine times outta ten, potentially checking me out turns out to be definitely checking me out.

(I’m not being cocky. I’m just stating facts.)

I lean back in my chair as well, and after enough time passes, turn my head to look over my shoulder.

'Potential' is tall, tanned, and brunette. She also seems weirdly familiar, but not in a we’ve-hooked-up-before sort of way. It takes me a while, but eventually I figure it out: she’s the girl who wrote her number on the receipt last night.

Now, because I’ve spent so much time staring her out, my casual look is totally not casual anymore. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just smiles wider, inviting.

I look over at Bobby and Danny. I didn’t come out tonight to score, after all.

"Go forth, my son," Bobby says, raising his hand in benediction. "Go forth and get laid, with my blessing."

Look, I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty tempting. In this place, rather than a nightclub, picking up seems different.

Maybe.

...nah.

It probably wouldn’t turn out any different. And I don’t really feel like splitting early on my boys when I got here so late. However, I _do_ wanna get her number (and I’m not gonna dig through a million receipts at work to get it).

"I’ll be back," I say, clapping Bobby and Danny each on the shoulder.

As I get close, Potential smiles and angles her body away from the bar, toward me. It’s a nice display. Long legs, small waist, nice tits made even nicer by a push-up bra and a low neckline.

“Hey,” I say when I’m standing beside her.

Potential lowers her eyes and runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “Hey.”

"I saw you last night, didn’t I?"

"You might have."

"Nah, I know I did. You left your number on the back of your receipt."

She raises an eyebrow and takes a small sip of her martini. "You didn’t call it."

"Well, that was my mistake. I’d like to fix that." That makes her smile again. I lean against the bar, smiling back. "What’s your name?"

“Rebecca. What’s yours?”

“Jon. My boys call me Jonny.”

“And what do your girls call you?”

Around this time last year, that would’ve been the opening for me to say, "You can call me whatever you want, babe," and offer to buy her a drink. After that, I’d invite her to dance, flirt some more on the dance floor, then guide her somewhere private for a while. After two hours, tops, I’d be flagging down a cab to take us back to my place.

But that was last year. Nowadays, I’m not looking to score every week, and it’s not just because I’ve pretty much got sex on tap with Esther. These days, I’m a little more interested in finding out what a girl is like before taking them home. Or, in this case, just getting her number.

So I talk, ask her questions. Rebecca looks surprised at the first question, then a little confused as the questions keep coming. She doesn’t seem pissed off or bored, though, so I just keep going. And as I go on, she seems to relax.

She smiles a lot. Laughs a lot too, even at shit I say that isn’t really that funny. I don’t know if that annoys me or not. To be honest, I don’t know how I feel about a lot of things with women.

Whoa, no, not like that. I know I like women, as in _physically_. I’m not Arthur. But when it comes to all the other shit? Like a woman’s personality, and the way she acts, and the stuff she’s interested in... yeah, I usually have no fucking idea what does it for me and what doesn’t. That sounds weird, I know, but up until a while ago, I didn’t really... talk to the chicks I hooked up with, if you get me.

Anyway, yeah. Rebecca. She’s smiling, she’s laughing - a lot. Maybe too much. But hey, I’m trying to figure out what I like and what I don’t like, so I keep talking to her.

I’m in the middle of describing this weird-ass movie Esther convinced me to watch - where this guy is on a train from the future, except it turns out he’s just a character in some other guy’s story, like what the fuck? - when Rebecca points at my nearly-empty drink and says, "Can I get you another?"

Now, I do know I like chicks who aren’t shy about buying the drinks, so I say, "Yeah, sure."

She gestures to the bartender and he comes right over, even though there’s a small crowd of people who are obviously waiting to be served. Perks of being good-looking, yo.

"I’ll have a French martini," Rebecca says. She gives me a warm smile and adds, "And my friend here will have a...?"

"Grey Goose and soda," I say, tilting my glass a little.

The bartender nods and slips off to fill our order. I turn to watch him because you never know what tricks you might pick up from other bartenders, but Rebecca puts a hand on my arm, stroking my bicep a little, which pulls my attention away.

"You want to get out of here after?" She asks. "Maybe go somewhere a little more private?"

Well, shit.

You know, in all the time I’ve been picking up women, not one has ever made the big move. I guess that might be because the routine I used to follow didn’t really give chicks a chance to put the moves on me, but still. It’s fucking surprising. And, man, I know I said I wasn’t going to ditch my boys, but—

My mixed feelings must show on my face, because Rebecca strokes my arm again and says, "How about you think it over while we drink?" as the bartender returns with her martini and my Goose.

"And here I was just aiming to get your number again."

"Always aim high, I say." Rebecca raises her martini glass. I clink my glass against hers, then pull back to take a long sip, thinking.

Rebecca smiles wide as I drink, and her smile is sorta triumphant-looking, which— yeah, I dunno. It’s not like I’ve definitely decided to take her home, so slow down there, woman. Then again, the confidence is kinda hot, so maybe I will, which means I’m gonna have to tell my boys that—

Okay, whoa.

Shit.

Jesus, fuck, this is _not_ a Grey Goose soda. I’ve drunk Goose plenty of times, and it’s never hit me like this.

I lift my hand to call the bartender back over, demand to know what sort of jacked up cocktail he’s accidentally given me (seriously, how can you fuck up a Grey Goose soda?), but Rebecca grabs me by the arm.

"So," she says. "You ready to get out of here?" She leans in until her tits press against my shoulder, and that’s— pretty fucking nice.

Getting out of here sounds nice too. It sounds great. My body’s feeling good all of a sudden - my skin’s all warm and my head is kinda floaty. It’s like being high, but from vodka instead of pot. Nice. Maybe I should just congratulate the bartender instead.

"Jonny?" Rebecca takes me by the elbow and tugs. She’s got a fucking strong grip for a chick. "Let’s go."

Were we going somewhere? I guess we were, otherwise why would she say that?

"Okay," I say. "Let’s go." Try to say it, anyway. There’s something— my tongue is all fucked up. I can’t feel my mouth. I’m pretty sure if I tapped my cheek, I wouldn’t feel a goddamn thing.

Fuck, what kind of drink was that?

At least I can still walk. Sorta.

The way this is going, though, things might get a little... tricky... in the performance department. I mean, if I’m so smashed I can’t feel my fucking face, chances are my dick’s gonna be just as numb.

We step out onto the sidewalk, Rebecca still keeping her death grip on my arm. Out of habit, I start looking for a cab - it’s a lot harder than fucking usual, with the world bobbing up and down like I’m standing on a boat.

Turns out I shouldn’t have bothered, though, because Rebecca seems to have other ideas. She starts pulling me toward the alley beside the bar, and— ah, fuck.

"Yo, I don’t— you know," I say, struggling to get my mouth to cooperate. "I don’t do alley sex." I try to lean away, but Rebecca pulls harder, and I go stumbling forward, into the alley.

"Really?" Rebecca smirks. "A regular Casanova like you not being down for a little dirty public sex?"

"There’s—" I wave my hands a little, like I can pull the words out of the air. "You gotta have standards."

Rebecca laughs. It’s a nasty sorta laugh, the kind that automatically makes you think _fuck this bitch_. "And here I was, thinking you were the complete opposite of Arthur. Looks like the snobby conceitedness runs in the family."

I stare at her, my brain struggling to process what she’d just said. “You— know Arthur.”

“Well done. Very astute of you.”

“Jesus,” I say. “Is it a fucking job— thing. Requirement. Is it a job requirement to be a sarcastic bitch to work in— whatever the fuck Arthur works in?”

Rebecca frowns for a second, confused, then shakes her head. She opens her purse, pulls out one of those tiny ass guns that are so small they look like toys, and shoves me back against the brick.

“If you’re thinking of running, I’d advise against it.” She clicks the safety off. “And if you’re thinking of calling out for help, I’d advise against that, too.”

“I wasn’t—” I shake my head, blinking hard. Little grey spots start dancing in front of my eyes. “Wasn’t thinking about doing either. I only just figured out what’s happening here.”

I don’t know why I added that last bit. It just slipped out without me thinking about it.

Wait, nah, I know why I said it. Fuck that fucking drink.

And fuck Arthur too. Of all the ways I thought I’d die, I never figured it’d be because of _family_.

The back door to the bar thumps open.

Rebecca raises her gun, points it just below my chin. I go cross-eyed looking down at it.

“Remember,” she says. “Not a sound.” Without taking her eyes off me, she calls out to whoever just came out: “The serum’s working, but he’s not out yet. I thought the sedative was supposed to knock him out in less than a minute. What’s the deal?”

“Oh, could be any number of things—”

Rebecca stiffens.

I lift my head, squinting. I know that voice. I know that fucking accent, too.

“—faulty chemicals, poor storage technique, terrible chemist,” James says, casual. “My money is on terrible chemist, personally.”

Rebecca pushes the gun harder against my chin. “Eames,” she says, voice flat. “Where’s Cassidy?”

Eames? “His name’s James,” pops out of my mouth.

Rebecca gives me a look that’s a little confused and a lot pissed off. "Shut up." Then, to James-who-might-actually-be-Eames: "Don’t think I won’t shoot him."

"Things will turn out very poorly for you if you do." James-Eames steps forward until we can both see him clearly. There’s a gun in his hands, and the look on his face says he’s got no problem using it.

Rebecca goes kinda pale when she sees the gun. She lets go of me and swings around to point her own gun at Eames-James.

Without Rebecca pushing me against the brick, my legs give out. I slide down the wall until I’m slumped over, the side of my face pressed against something cold and sticky on the ground. From this angle, all I can see is Rebecca’s and... Eames’... legs.

(If I turned my head some more, I could probably see up Rebecca’s skirt. I got no interest in that, though. Fuck this psycho kidnapper bitch.)

"This is unusually ambitious for you and Cassidy," Eames says. "Graduating from raiding the minds of the elderly for their social security details to real-world kidnapping?"

"I’m not joking around, Eames. I will shoot him."

"I think we both know you won’t. You can’t extract from a dead man, after all.”

Extract? What? The fuck kind of black market shit is this?

“Funny that you assume we’re going to extract from him,” Rebecca says. “Does that mean there’s something worth extracting from his head then?”

Aw, shit. Is this some kind of black market brain harvesting operation?

“There really isn’t,” Eames says evenly. “Unless you’re interested in the secrets of effective steroid use.”

 _Hey, fuck you,_ I want to yell. _I don’t use fucking 'roids._ My mouth is all fucked up, though, so I just end up mumbling it into the concrete.

“I think you’re lying.”

“And I think you’re being foolish,” Eames replies. “Think, Rebecca. Be sensible. This is _Arthur_ you’re making a potential enemy of. Put your gun down, walk away now, and you just might escape retribution. I can’t guarantee whoever hired you will be granted the same privilege, though.”

“God, you think you and Arthur are such hot shit,” Rebecca says. “There are scarier fucking people in the world than you two. The field’s changing, and you guys are going to end up screwed if you don’t change with it.”

“Mhm,” Eames says, unimpressed. “Is that what this is all about then? An attempt to ingratiate yourself to the supposed new order? If that’s the case, I recant my statement about you and Cassidy being ambitious.”

“Fuck you.”

“Also, if there _is_ a power shift in play, I dare say Arthur and I have a better chance of weathering whatever’s coming than you and your merry band of incompetents.” Eames shifts. I can hear his shoes grinding against the concrete. “Last chance, Rebecca. Walk away or take a gut shot.”

Rebecca hisses like a pissed off tea kettle. But she takes one step back, then another, lowering her gun to her side.

“Screw this shit,” she mutters, and then she’s gone, hiking it out of the alley.

I lay there, staring at the brick wall opposite, listening to the sound of her high heels fade away. It’s only when they’ve faded away completely that Eames walks over to me.

“Alright there?” He asks.

I glare at his shoes. “Does it look like I’m alright, jackass?”

“Hardly the tone to take with someone who just saved your life,” Eames says, tsking. He bends down, grabs me under the armpits, and hauls me up. “Upsy-daisy, then.”

Eames drapes my arm across his shoulders - they’re big fucking shoulders, yo - and starts walking. The guy is one move away from lifting me up, bridal-style.

“Hey, I can do that,” I say. “I can walk.”

“I really don’t think you can.”

“Nah, fuck you, I can.” I pull away from Eames and stagger a few steps forward. “See?”

I look over at him, and the world starts to lean to the left, so I start leaning with it. Eames catches me, or props me up or something, and the world starts leaning the other way. Then back to the left.

“Fuck,” I say. “What the fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Eames says. "Tell me, do you regularly accept drinks from strange women?" He drapes my arm over his shoulders again.

I start to reply with— something, but that’s when I hear Danny say, from somewhere behind me: “Yo, what the fuck, asshole? What the fuck are you doing?"

"Good God, this is the last thing I need," Eames mutters.

"See, Bobby?" Danny goes on. "I told you that guy was looking at Jonny all weird."

"Yeah," Bobby says, grim, "I see." He sounds closer when he says, "Yo, are you messing with our boy?"

Eames’ shoulders tense up beneath my arm. He turns around to face Bobby and Danny, dragging me with. "I’m doing nothing of the sort," he says. "There is, in fact, a very good explanation for—"

“It’s okay,” I cut in, waving a hand. “He’s alright. He’s Arthur’s guy. Guy friend. Boyfriend. You know.” I go to pat Eames on the shoulder, but my aim is completely fucking off, and I end up patting him on the chest instead. “Shit, you got some tits and a half, man.” I keep patting. It’s like I’ve totally lost control of my hand. “I mean, if you were a chick, I could just, like— fucking motorboat the shit outta them.”

“...thank you,” Eames says. “I’m flattered.”

I squint at him. “You don’t sound flattered.”

“Do not let my outward countenance fool you,” Eames says. “I am deeply flattered on the inside.”

He’s looking past me, scanning the street, and suddenly, he doesn’t look like a sloppy thief. He’s casing the area, eyes sharp, like a cop.

Or like a soldier.

“You an' Arthur didn’t meet in Paris,” I say. “You’re— you met him in the army. The Marines. Didn’t you?"

“I believe this is a conversation that can wait until a more opportune moment arises,” Eames says. He glances at Bobby and Danny, who’re still hovering around like majorly suspicious flies. “Speaking of opportune— since you gentlemen are so intent on assisting, perhaps you can stand guard as I attempt to maneuver Jon into his car.”

“Stand guard?” Bobby frowns. “The fuck is going on?”

“Yeah,” Danny says. He puffs his chest out. “Somebody out to get Jonny?”

“Well,” Eames says, “considering he’s been drugged, I think it’s safe to assume that there are people here tonight who don’t have Jon’s best interests at heart.”

“Fuck,” Danny says with feeling. “That’s fucked up.”

And I’d be nodding along, agreeing (because it _is_ fucked up that I nearly became an organ donor or what-fucking-ever, thanks to Arthur’s shady shit), but—

I frown, trying to think past the fog that’s covering my brain. There’s— something. Something Eames said about my car—

“I was gonna drink,” I say. This is a very important fact. At least, I’m pretty sure it is.

“And you received an absolute doozy of a drink,” Eames replies. “Congratulations.” He starts pulling me along, Bobby and Danny following like bodyguards. They’re the best fucking bros, man. I gotta tell them that more often.

...wait, I’m forgetting something.

Right. Drinking. Drinking and—

“I was gonna drink,” I say again. “I don’t bring my car if I’m gonna be drinking. I’m not one of those drink driving assholes.” I squeeze Eames’ shoulder and try to dig my heels into the ground. “How’re you gonna get me into my car if it’s not here?"

Eames clears his throat. “We really do need to keep moving,” he says, not looking at me.

I stare at him.

No.

No way. There’s _no_ fucking way that he’d do that, not after I went nuclear over the lockpicking.

But then Eames is leaning me against the passenger side of my car - _my fucking car_. I roll my head to the side, until I can see through the window, and what I see is a fucking mess of wires sticking out from beneath the steering wheel.

I lift my head to look at Eames, beyond pissed. “You—”

“Saved your life, remember?” Eames says, full of goddamn cheer. He pulls the door open and tips me into the passenger seat.

This guy. This fucking guy—

“ _You carjacking motherfucker._ ”

And that’s all I get out before the fog swallows me up.


	3. Chapter 3

I wake up facedown in bed. _My_ bed.

I lay there for a while, staring blankly at the pillows and wondering how I got here, until my brain kicks in, and—

Oh. Oh, yeah.

Okay, right, I remember now. I mean, don’t remember every detail from last night, but I remember enough.

I just hope I’m here because Eames brought me here, and not because Rebecca and however many buddies she had caught up with us after I passed out. I’m not handcuffed to the bed or sitting in a bathtub filled with ice, though, so I’m betting on Eames.

I’m just about to get out of bed - try walking around a little, see if I’ve been permanently fucked up by whatever Rebecca spiked my drink with - when I hear Eames’ laughter through the wall.

“Even amateurs can get lucky,” I hear him say. “Also, not to put too fine a point on it, this would’ve been a lot easier if you’d just told—” He goes quiet for a while, then: “Yes, well, I think the time for secrecy may be over.”

 _Arthur,_ I think. He’s talking to Arthur, that’s the only person he could be talking to.

I’m rolling out of bed and heading for the door before I’ve even thought everything through.

“You? Hardly,” Eames is saying, as I open the door and stomp out into the living room. “I think—” He stops when he sees me, then glances at his laptop again. “Uh— one moment.” He pulls one earphone out of his ear and looks back at me. “Feeling better?”

“Is that Arthur?” I point at his laptop. “Are you talking to Arthur?” I don’t give him a chance to reply before sticking my face in front of the screen. “ _Arthur._ ”

The video quality is kind of shit, but I can still tell Arthur is frowning like a motherfucker - when Arthur frowns, you can see his frown lines from space. He looks past me, at Eames, and says something I can’t hear because Eames still has his earphones plugged in.

“That’s rather difficult, considering he’s practically parked himself in my lap,” Eames says. “Not that I actually mind, considering the resemblance, but— oh, now that’s just rude,” he complains, when I yank the cord out.

I ignore him. “What the fuck is going on, Arthur? The fuck have you been up to? Do you know what almost happened to me?”

“I know.” Arthur rubs a hand over his face. “Eames told me. I—” He lets his hand drop and grimaces. “I'm sorry. I didn't intend for this to happen.”

“Well, it happened, so your intentions mean jack shit.”

“Jonny, _I’m sorry,_ ” Arthur says, slipping toward his normal accent. He rubs his face again. “I don’t know what else I can say.”

“How about ‘it’s not gonna happen again, Jonny’?” I say. “Or maybe ‘I’m gonna stop doing this dangerous, fucked up shit and actually be a systems analyst like I’ve been telling everyone I am’?”

Arthur looks away, shifty as fuck.

I narrow my eyes. “You _are_ gonna stop, right?”

There’s no reply from Arthur. Now he looks shifty _and_ constipated. Eames gets up from the couch - hands raised, like he’s trying to say he’s got nothing to do with this - and wanders over to the kitchen.

I sit down in his spot and lean in toward the screen. “Bro, you _better_ be fucking stopping,” I say. “Some crazy fucking people tried to kidnap me because of you. What if they go after Monica next, huh? Or my parents? Or _your_ parents? What if—”

“I’m taking care of it,” Arthur says loudly.

“You’re taking care of it? Like you’ve been taking care of shit up until now? Because that’s been working out really fucking good, hasn’t it?”

“I _said_ I’m taking care of it,” Arthur says again, all pissy.

“ _How?_ ”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me with this suddenly dead-eyed stare that turns him into a complete fucking stranger. It’s like staring at a black hole. No warmth, no light, no nothing. It’s fucking creepy.

“Arthur,” I say. It comes out way quieter than I mean it to. “What the fuck are you going to do, man?”

“You’re better off not knowing,” Arthur says. “Just— trust me when I say I'm taking care of it. Okay?”

“Arthur,” I say, but it’s too late. He’s already hung up on me.

(And man— do you have any idea how wrong it is to have a conversation like that end with Skype’s _bwong-bing_ sound?)

I look up at Eames. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, staring up at the ceiling, politely pretending he hadn’t heard any of that. Of course, if he’d actually wanted to be polite, he would’ve left the fucking room.

“What the hell is Arthur gonna do?” I ask.

“If I were you,” Eames says, still staring at the ceiling, “I would think very hard about whether I truly want to hear the answer to that question.”

 

* * *

 

I fucking hate waiting.

It drives me nuts, just sitting or standing around, doing nothing. I do whatever I can to avoid that shit usually: arrive really early, find somewhere else to go— whatever it takes. I can’t avoid it now, though, and it makes me tense as fuck.

I try to keep busy - work the tension out by doing stuff, you know? Cleaning, mostly. I scrub the toilet and the shower, polish the mirror, clean the sink. (Eames, the fucker, has been leaving little drips of toothpaste behind every morning and evening.) Then I move on to the living room.

Eames stares at me when I pull out the Hoover, but says nothing. Just lifts his feet up when I move to vacuum between the couch and the coffee table, then puts them back down when I’m done. He disappears when I start rearranging the shelves, and doesn't return until it's close to midnight. I don't ask what he's been up to, and he doesn't tell me.

The next day, I call my boss. I talk to him on speaker while I change my bed sheets, telling him I can’t come into work for the next week because I'm all contagious and shit. He’s not exactly happy to hear it, but man, I've been working for him for three fucking years and I'm a _good_ worker.

It’s late in the afternoon when I finally leave my room. I start to head for the kitchen, but Eames stops me by leaning over the side of the couch and holding out a piece of paper out to me.

“What’s this?” I say, even as I look at it.

Turns out ‘this’ is a medical certificate, signed by Doctor Theodore Daniels, saying Jonathan Christopher Martello (how the fuck does Eames know my middle name?) will be unable to work for the next week due to viral gastroenteritis. It looks fucking legit.

“Where the fuck did this come fr—” I look back up at Eames, mouth hanging open a little. “Wait, did you make this?”

“Don't ever say I didn’t do anything for you,” Eames says with a wink.

A wink. He fucking _winked_ at me, Jesus Christ.

Before I can say ‘what happened to not hitting on straight guys?’, there’s a _ping_ sound. Eames picks his phone up and looks at the screen.

“Arthur’s on his way.” He tucks his phone into his pocket. “He should be here tomorrow evening.”

“Great,” I say. It’s only half-sarcastic.

I mean, like— on one hand, no more freaks trying to scoop my brains out. On the other hand, my cousin most likely pulled some fucked up shit to make that happen. It’s not exactly win-win.

I guess the smart thing to do now would be to cut Arthur out of my life. Just send a message back, telling him to not bother about coming here, and to keep his craziness out of my life.

I can’t do it, though. It’s like— God, I don’t know.

Like, there was this girl who used to work at the club, right? Christina. She had this junkie little brother who was always bugging her - begging for loans, promising to pay her back (he never did), and crashing on her couch and then stealing her shit when she wasn’t home.

We all told her to stop helping him, cut him off cold, you know? Well, I didn’t actually say that, because it wasn’t really any of my business, and Christina would get crazy mad when anyone tried to bring it up. (Plus, I was planning on scoring with her, and any guy who pissed Christina off never got to get with her.) But, like, I agreed _inside_ with the people who said she should just block his number and not answer the door when he came knocking.

Christina wouldn’t do any of that shit, though. “He’s my brother, he’s family, what can I do?” was what she’d always say, and I got that. Still thought she was stupid for taking him in all the time, but I understood. Sort of.

But now, though... man, I _really_ get it.

Not that I’m in the exact same position. I mean, Arthur doesn’t need my help or anything, and I’m pretty sure he’s not a meth head because he’s still got all his teeth, you know? But it’s kinda similar. Arthur’s my cousin. He’s family. I'd be a fucking douchebag if I turned my back on him, even if that is the smart thing to do.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath. Thinking through all that has got me tense again.

At least I’ve still got the kitchen to clean.

“Oh, for love of—” Eames says when I pick up the sponge.

I look at him. “What?”

Eames sits up on the couch. “Look, you’ve clearly had a trying few days,” he says. “Now that this mess is almost over with, why don’t you try relaxing a little bit?”

“I’m trying to,” I say. I point at the sink. There’s only two plates in it, but still.

“No, actually, what you’re doing there is sublimating your anxi— your tension into a cleaning spree that would put a 1950s housewife to shame,” Eames replies.

“What do you recommend I do then, ‘Doctor Daniels’?”

“I am delighted you asked,” Eames says, with a huge smile. “I propose we go out for drinks.”

I stare at him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“As the grave,” Eames replies. “And I assure you, I’m not planning on slipping you a sedative or having my way with your inebriated self.”

I scowl at him. “Yeah, that’s real funny. Glad you think it’s fucking funny enough to joke about.”

“I’m not joking.” Eames gets up from the couch. He walks over to me and leans his hip against the counter. “Listen— as someone who’s been in more than a few tight spots over the years, I’m telling you that one of the best ways to get over something like this is to get right back on the horse. We’ll go someplace quiet, you’ll refuse any and all drinks from strange women, and all will be well.” When I don’t say anything straight away, he adds: “It’ll be my shout. Well, the first few rounds will be, anyway.”

“What happened to being broke?”

“Oh, come now,” Eames says, still smiling, “surely you must have figured out by now that that was one of Arthur's ridiculous falsehoods.”

“Yeah, I did, but I get the feeling that you’re actually broke for real a lot of the time too.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why do you care so much about helping me get over— whatever you think I need to get over?”

“Why wouldn’t I care? You’re a young man in the prime of your life, and here you are, put off socialising and possibly hindering your chances of finding love because—”

“Cut the crap,” I say, throwing the sponge at him.

Eames dodges it with ease. “Honestly?” he says, when he straightens up.

“Some honesty would be nice for a change, yeah.”

Eames lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Honestly, it’s because Arthur’s arriving tomorrow.”

“So?”

“And so he’ll arrive, walk through that door, and say, ‘Eames, how’s my cousin doing?’ And I’ll say, ‘Oh, he’s doing fantastically, Arthur, but, oh— by the way, he seems to have been utterly traumatised by Rebecca and her gang—’”

“I’m not traumatised, what the _fuck._ ”

“‘So traumatised,’” Eames says, over the top of me, “‘that he will no longer leave his flat.’ At which point Arthur will then stare at me like _this_.” And man— Eames gives me this look, right? This half-pissed off, half-disappointed look that somehow makes him look like Arthur. It’s fucking nuts.

I laugh a little, even though I’m not exactly in a laughing mood.

“And the ultimate result of all that,” Eames says, “is that I end up in the shit with your cousin, despite doing everything in my power to preserve your well-being and adhere to his ridiculous insistence on secrecy.”

I think about that for a minute. “You want me to go out tonight so Arthur won’t cut you off from sex.”

Eames gives me the most innocent look I’ve ever seen from a middle-aged guy. “You did ask for the truth.”

I snort. Un-fucking-believable. But— “Fine,” I say. “I guess I do owe you one. Even if you did fuck up my car.”

“Marvellous!” Eames says. He pushes away from the counter. “Let me just get my coat.”

 

* * *

 

It turns out Eames doesn’t really know his way around, aside from discovering places to have lunch, so I end up taking him to this bar Esther showed me once. It's a quiet place, with low lighting, and small booths and tables. The sort of place you go to have conversations and all that, rather than a place to be seen and to score.

It’s still early in the evening, so there’s hardly anyone inside when we arrive. Eames picks a table that gives him a clear view of the door and the rest of the bar. (Arthur does the same fucking thing.) I’m not that happy about having to sit with my back to the door, considering everything that’s happened, but the other option is sitting next to Eames, and like I said, these tables are fucking small.

Amazingly, Eames sticks to his promise and buys the first round, which turns out to be a whole tray of shots. I don’t usually drink shots, but I’m probably gonna stay away from the vodka sodas for a while.

“Someone’s looking to get good and fucked up,” I say, after the bartender puts the tray down and leaves.

“Consider it an apology.” Eames picks up a shot glass and sets it down in front of me. “For all the inconvenience—” that’s one way of putting it, “—and… well. Your car.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “So you have got manners.”

“Yes, but like fine china and good silverware, my manners are only trotted out on special occasions.”

“What’s the special occasion?”

“Your continued good health?” Eames suggests, shrugging. “Arthur’s impending arrival? The soon-to-be end to all this madness?”

I smile a little at that and pick my shot up. “Yeah, I guess I can drink to that.”

“Hang on," Eames says quickly. He puts another two shots in front of me. "We should toast each of those things separately.”

So we do. And then we keep going.

We toast my poor fucking car, and Bobby and Danny, and Esther, and Pino’s focaccias. We even toast Rebecca and her crew, which I guess is fucked up, but Eames makes it seem kinda funny. Or maybe that’s the alcohol because somewhere around the fifth shot, things started to feel good - all warm and relaxing. At one point, Eames goes to the bar and comes back with a bottle of beer, which he chases each shot with. I hate the taste of beer, so I pass when he offers to get me one.

On the ninth round (or maybe the tenth? Man, I don’t know), Eames raises his beer and says, with a completely straight face, “To Arthur himself, and all his ridiculous insanity.”

I snort, then start laughing, because that— that’s fucking hilarious, for some reason. I clink my shot against Eames’ bottle. “To Arthur.”

Fucking Arthur. I don’t know whether I’m gonna hug him or strangle him when he gets here tomorrow. Maybe both. Yeah, both.

“You know,” Eames says suddenly, looking out the window, watching the people walking along outside, “of all the places I imagined Arthur coming from, I never imagined this.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you imagine?”

“Los Angeles, New York. Detroit, maybe.” Eames waves a hand. “You know.”

I don’t, actually. I scrunch my face up at Eames. “Why those places?”

“Our line of work tends to attract—” Eames pauses for a moment, thinking. “People from extremes, let’s say. Extreme poverty, extreme wealth— extreme circumstances in general. This is all very…” he trails off, looking around again.

“Very what?”

Eames eyes me for a second. “It’s all very ordinary.” He pushes another shot towards me. “That’s all.”

“Well, see, that’s it right there,” I say, pointing at Eames. “Arthur never wanted normal. Ordinary. Whatever. Ever since we were kids, he never wanted that.” I knock the shot back, and Eames replaces it with another one almost immediately.

“Oh?” Eames says. “What was he like? When he was young, I mean.”

“When he was young?” I scrunch my face up, thinking. “He was a moody motherfucker, that’s what he was.”

“Why?”

I laugh a little. “Fuck, man. I don’t know. Pick anything, Arthur could probably find a way to get pissed over it.” I lean back against the booth, getting comfortable. “He was okay about it, though. He’d tell you straight up if he was pissed off. He didn’t sit in his room, expecting you to read his mind or anything.”

“Were the two of you close?”

“I guess? When were kids, anyway. As close as you can get, with Arthur.”

“What happened?”

I lift my hand and let it drop. “Fucked if I know. He just stopped coming home.”

“Why?”

Why, what, when, how— fuck, man. Eames sounds like Nicole, one of Bobby's ex-girlfriends. He was only with her for, like, three months, but she was always around when me and Danny came over, and whenever Bobby was out of the room, she'd be at us with the fucking questions: ‘How long have you guys known Bobby? Was he as funny in high school as he is now? What's Bobby favourite meal? How do you make that? Does he talk about me to you guys? What does he say?’ It was like— fuck, girl, ask him yourself.

I just hope Eames doesn't lose his shit like Nicole did, if I happen to mention an ex. Not that Arthur really had exes, back then.

Eames clears his throat, eyebrows raised, and that's when I realise I’ve been sitting here, spaced out, thinking about Nicole that whole time.

“Shit,” I say. I gotta slow down with the shots. “Sorry. What were we talking about again?”

"Why Arthur stopped coming home," Eames says.

"Oh. Yeah." I shrug. "He probably stopped coming home because he got mixed up in— whatever the fuck it is you guys are mixed up in."

Eames nods. "Right. Of course."

"Before that, though—" I rub my mouth. "Before that, I think it was because he didn't wanna deal with all the shit about him being into guys."

Eames props his chin up on one hand. “Did your family have a hard time with that?”

I stare at him. “Uh.”

Fuck, how do I say this? Fucking Arthur. He should be the one telling his boyfriend this, not me.

"See, the thing is—" I rub the back of my neck. "No one in our family knows Arthur is gay except for me. Well, Monica's probably figured it out 'cause that kid's crazy smart. But other than her, no one in the family knows." I clear my throat. "So if you were hoping for a— I don't know, an invite to the next Christmas dinner or something—"

Eames chokes on his drink. "I— no," he says, wiping his mouth. "I haven't been hoping for that, I assure you."

He sounds convincing. Looks convincing too. But Esther and Bobby have been to England, and they both told me English people do this stiff upper lip thing, where they pretend shit that bothers them doesn't actually bother them.

“Sorry, bro,” I say, just in case Eames _is_ bothered and hiding it. I give him my best ‘life is shit sometimes’ sympathetic look too - I use it a lot on the quiet nights at work, with the sad drunks. But I guess the English don’t know how to handle sympathy, because for a moment there, Eames looks like he's gonna burst out laughing.

“I’ll deal with the disappointment somehow,” he says, nodding seriously, after the moment passes. Before I can say anything, Eames adds: “You mentioned a Monica. And she is...?”

“My little sister.”

“I see. And does Arthur have any siblings?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Arthur’s parents were like—” and here I pitch my voice a little higher, to sound like Aunt Maria, “—‘why would we have another when we already have the perfect child?’”

Eames smirks. “Ah, so that’s how Arthur ended up so modest,” he says, which cracks me the fuck up.

“Yeah,” I say, still laughing. I lift my glass up in a semi-toast to Eames. “That’s exactly it, man.”

“Was he, though?” Eames asks when I calm down a little.

“What, modest?”

Eames looks at me like I’m crazy. “No,” he says. “Was he perfect?”

“Pfft.” I roll my eyes. “Although you probably think he is.”

“Hardly,” Eames says. He sounds like he’s going to start laughing again.

I give him the side eye, but, like— a side eye where I’m looking straight at him. I mean, it’s one thing for me to talk shit about Arthur - we’re family. But Eames— “What kind of boyfriend are you?”

“A realistic one,” Eames replies, smiling a little. “In my experience, expecting perfection in one’s partner - or anyone else, for that matter - is the fastest track to misery.”

“Huh.” I tilt my head, thinking about that. “You sound like Esther.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Eames says.

I nod. “You should.” I slide down in my seat until I can rest my head against the back of the booth. These things were designed for fucking midgets, I swear to God.

Eames leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “Arthur is not perfect,” he says. “I know that, you know that. But I’m guessing he probably seemed perfect to everyone else?”

“Fuck, did he ever.” I roll my eyes. “He got good grades, he was on the track team, he was an altar boy, all the Italian moms wanted their daughters to marry him.” I grin as Eames coughs out a laugh. “But Arthur was— well, like I said. He was a moody motherfucker. Attitude problem bigger than fucking Jupiter, you know what I mean?”

“I think I do,” Eames says. He’s trying not to smile, but he’s failing at it.

“But that was the only…” I stop, thinking hard. “Fuck, what’s that word? Like, the bad shit in a person?”

“Fault?” Eames suggests.

“ _Yes._ ” I slap the table hard enough to make the shot glasses bounce. The bartender frowns at me from across the room, but fuck him. “Yeah, that’s the word. Fault. Arthur being a moody bitch was the only fault other people saw. Nobody ever saw the other shit.”

“Oh?” Eames picks up his beer, which reminds me that I’m still holding onto my shot. I drink it quickly, as Eames says, “Go on. What other shit?”

“What, you want examples?” I ask, and Eames nods. “Fuck, I don’t know. Let me think for a second.” I straighten up, trying to lift my brain past the fog created by all that alcohol, and think back. Jesus, Arthur back then— “He was a shitty team player,” I say finally.

Eames mouth twitches. “I gathered as much, from the ‘attitude problem bigger than Jupiter’, as you put it.”

“No, I mean, he was _really_ shit at it.” I lean forward and start ticking points off my fingers. “He was shit at anything that needed him to work with other people. His coach put him on the relay team once, right? Fucking never again. He’s the messiest son of a bitch I know, and he didn’t do shit to help his mom around the house—” I mean, I didn’t really either - perks of being the only son, yo - but if my mom _asked_ , I would’ve. Arthur, once he got a job, probably would’ve paid someone else to do it. “ _And,_ ” I say, because I’m on a fucking roll here, “he always had shitty hair.”

Eames’ forehead wrinkles. “Really?”

I give him a weird look. _That’s_ what he finds hard to believe? “Yeah, really,” I say. “I mean, if you go to his parents’ house— in the hallway, there’s all the fucking family photos on the walls. And Arthur’s their only kid, so it’s like a— fuck, like a gallery of shitty haircuts through the ages.”

For the first time since I told him he’d never get an invite to a Martello Christmas dinner or whatever, Eames looks disappointed.

And I feel bad for him, all of a sudden. It hits me all at once - you know how alcohol can do that to you, sometimes? I mean, Eames isn’t that bad a guy. Sure, he’s a pain in the ass and a shitty house guest, but he did save my life, and he’s pretty generous when it comes to the drinks. It fucking sucks for him, that he’ll never get to share in all of Arthur’s life, that Arthur’s been keeping all of this shit from him. And I know that’s not any of my business, but like I said, Eames saved my life. Which means I owe him a favour. Like, I’m in his debt or something, right?

“I’m gonna settle the debt,” I say. “Right now.”

Eames blinks. “What debt?”

“ _The debt,_ ” I say. Eames raises an eyebrow at me, clearly not getting it. “Nevermind. It’s just— you _can_ see those photos,” I tell him, as I try to stand up. It doesn’t work.

“And how am I going to achieve that?” Eames asks, watching me struggle to get out my seat and not offering to help. Not that I _need_ help, so it’s good that he’s just sitting here. “While I will admit that I dearly want to see those photos, I do hope your answer isn’t going to be ‘break into Arthur’s childhood home’, because—”

“Bullshit,” I say. “You’d fucking love to break into Arthur’s childhood home.”

“Alright, you may have a point there.”

I give him a warning look. “You better not be thinking about doing it, though. Jesus, why is breaking in always the first solution that you can think of?”

“It does seem almost pathological, doesn’t it?” Eames says, tapping his chin.

“If patholol— path—” I screw my face up. “If that word means ‘something very wrong with you’, then yeah, it does.” I lay my hands flat against the table, and push myself up and out of my chair. It only takes me two tries. “Come on,” I say. “We’re going back to my place.”

“We are?” Eames says, but he stands and follows.

When we get to the door, Eames pushes it open for me, which I probably should have a problem with - I mean, do I _look_ like a chick to him? But hey— I’ve had like a dozen shots, on Eames’ dime. I’m feeling too good to get worked up, so I just keep talking.

“My Aunt Val— her and her friends are into that scrapbooking shit, you know?”

“Right,” Eames says, his tone of voice saying he’s waiting to see where I’m going with this.

“Couple years ago, Aunt Val got this new laptop, and a scanner, and all these— fuck, whatever, these fancy programs. And she went around and got everyone’s photos, and scanned them, and did all this... I don’t know. Stuff. Like, scrapbooking on the computer.” Hundreds of photos. Every Martello, right back to my great-grandparents. But that’s not the important bit. The important bit is— “She gave everyone a copy for Christmas,” I say, looking at Eames.

“ _Ah,_ ” Eames says. He starts to smile.

 

* * *

 

Do you know what one of the hardest things to do is when you’re drunk? Walking up the stairs.

(Another thing that seems fucking difficult to do when drunk is pissing without getting it all over the toilet seat. Well, okay, not the pissing part. I get that’s hard when you can’t see straight and you can barely stand up. But clean it up after, you know? It’s not that fucking hard.)

I’ve got a death grip on the railing, using it to haul me up the steps. Eames is following me, and every now and then he reaches out and steadies me when I start tipping over too far. By the time we reach my floor, a thousand years later, Eames has one of my arms slung over his shoulder (it’s the second time in as many fucking days that we’ve been in this position), and he’s practically dragging me to the door.

I dig my hand into the pocket of my jeans, trying to grab my keys, but my fingers go all stupid, and I can’t get a hold of them.

“Fuck,” I say, laughing at nothing.

“Alright, one second.” Eames unslings my arm from around his shoulders and leans me against the wall. “Here, let me,” he says, and then he jams his hand into my pocket.

I jump, then freeze, because if I keep moving around, the more likely it is that Eames’ hand will go places it doesn’t need to. “What the fuck, bro,” I say. “This is fucking gay.”

“Is it?” Eames pulls my keys out and bounces them in the palm of his hand. “I had no idea you were such an expert on homosexuality.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“Mhm,” Eames says, amused, then holds my keys up. “Which one?”

It takes a bit of concentration, but I manage to point at the right key. Eames gets the door open, then hauls me into my apartment. He goes to set me down on the couch, but I pull away and wave for him to sit on the couch instead.

“You sit down,” I say, staggering away. “I’ll get the photo— thing.”

“Why not just tell me where it is, and I’ll fetch it?” Eames asks. “You look like you can barely walk.”

“Thanks to you.” I paw at the doorknob. “It’ll take too long to explain where it is. I’m fine, I’ve got it. You stay there.”

It’s not actually that hard to find Aunt Val’s family DVD - I stuck it in this box that holds all the stuff that doesn’t fit anywhere else - but Eames is obviously a snoop, and I’m, you know, a private fucking person.

Eames is still on the couch when I come out, and he’s eyeing my TV set up, head tilted to the side. “You don’t have a DVD player.”

“I don’t watch movies that much,” I say. “Never saw the point. But I’ve got this.” I point at my PS3. I turn it on, slot the DVD in, then grab a controller and hand it to Eames. “You start it, I need to drink something that’s not alcohol.” I go to the kitchen, saying, “Aunt Val split the photos up into years. Anything from like—” shit, what year was I born in again? Fuck it. “Anything from the 80s will have me and Arthur in it.”

“Then let’s go with ‘85 and adjust from there,” Eames says, as he works the controller.

I come back with my bottle of water just as the DVD starts playing. It’s a slideshow sort of thing, but Aunt Val put music in the background - songs that were top of the charts in whatever year you decide to look at - and I have to dive for the remote, turn the volume down before me and Eames go deaf from Whitney Houston singing about wanting to dance with somebody.

Eames gives a weird little cough, but when I look at him, he’s just watching the photos slide by, his expression serious.

“Arthur told you much about us?” I wave at the screen, which is showing a photo of Aunt Val and Uncle Carlo, back when Uncle Carlo still had hair.

“Not really, no.” Eames hesitates for a second, then says, “Arthur’s gone to such pains to avoid talking about his family for so long, I thought perhaps they— well, perhaps _you_ were all dead.”

I stop, my bottle raised halfway to my mouth. “Fucking— seriously?” I say. _Dead?_ And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I think Eames sounded kinda sad when he said that.

Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur, I think. Way to make your boyfriend feel loved.

“I suppose he thought there’d be no point,” Eames goes on. “After all, it’s like you said. It isn’t as though I’ll ever get to meet any of his family. Present company excluded, of course.” He gives me a tiny smile and shrugs.

“Right,” I say. And it’s not like Arthur meant for Eames to meet me.

Fuck, even if it is just my imagination, I’m feeling sorry for him all over again.

"Gimme that," I say, holding my hand out for the controller. Eames hands it over, and I start fast forwarding through the pictures.

It shouldn’t be up to me to make up for Arthur being a shitty boyfriend, but— you know. I got a debt.

"There," I say, when I finally get to the slide I want.

Eames smiles wide, showing off all his crooked teeth. “Well,” he says, “there’s no need for you to explain who _those_ two are.”

The slide’s got two photos, side by side: one of me, one of Arthur. We can’t be any older than five or six years old. Aunt Val wrote _separated at birth???_ underneath and added about a million fucking smiley faces.

(I remember when my mom first saw that, a couple days after Christmas. She was convinced that Aunt Val started that rumour about me and Arthur having the same dad. Took my dad three hours to convince her not to call Aunt Val up and scream at her. It’s a good thing he did because - no offense to her or anything - Aunt Val doesn’t exactly have the brains to start that sort of shit.)

Even though Eames said I didn’t need to explain, I do anyway, because it’s kinda important that he knows which one of us is which. “That’s me,” I say, pointing at the photo on the right. And then on the left— “That’s Arthur, and his first shitty haircut.”

Eames’ huge smile somehow gets huger. “That,” he says slowly, “truly is something.”

“Fucking tell me about it,” I say, shaking my head. A buzzcut _and_ a rattail, what the hell. Although, to be fair, that haircut probably wasn’t Arthur’s decision. The rest, though. The rest are all on him.

More pictures, more stories, more of Arthur's fucking awful haircuts. The one that seems to bring Eames the most joy is one from when Arthur was 15 or 16 years old, with hair past his shoulders. He actually pauses the slideshow and just sits there, smiling and smiling at the picture of Arthur with his long, girly hair, the way other people smile at babies or those tiny dogs with the long, floppy ears.

Fuck, man, take a picture it’ll last longer, I almost say, except that is a picture he’s looking at, so—

“Oh hey,” I say, as an idea hits me.

Eames blinks, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just— wait there.”

I go over to the shelves behind the couch, where I keep a couple of photo albums. I haven’t opened them in years, but I open one now, flipping through the pages until I find the one I want.

Well, more like the one Eames will probably want.

I pull the photo of Arthur out of the plastic sleeve, then march back over to Eames and hold it out to him. “Here,” I say. “For you. It’s a— y’know.” Consider it an apology, Eames said, back at the bar. “I’m sorry Arthur’s been a secretive dipshit and all that.”

“Is it really your responsibility to make up for your cousin’s behaviour?” Eames asks.

I wave the photo at him. “You want this or not?”

“Yes,” Eames says quickly, and takes the photo from me. He smiles down at it for a few seconds, then tucks it away in his wallet.

I go to grab another bottle of water because my throat is bone-fucking-dry from talking, and when I come back, Eames jerks his head at the TV and says, “The pair of you certainly look cheerful there.” He picks up the PS3 controller and pauses the slideshow again, so I can look.

It’s another photo of me and Arthur, obviously: me sitting on my parents’ couch, Arthur sitting on the floor in front, both of us looking at the camera with fucking identical scowls.

“Oh. Yeah, that was— that was at Christmas.” I make a face, remembering. “It was a shitty fucking Christmas.”

Eames tilts his head, interested. “Why?”

I laugh, even though it’s not really funny. “That,” I say, pointing at the screen, “was my last year of college. Arthur’s too. And it was—” I sigh. “Everyone was talking at dinner, right? About what I was gonna do after college, what Arthur was gonna do. Asking me what my plans were, what kind of jobs I was looking at, and blah blah fucking blah. It was just— so much bullshit. College was bullshit. I didn’t even really wanna go in the first place.”

“So why did you?”

“Fuck, man, don’t you remember what it was like to be a kid or something? I got in, everyone expected me to go, and I didn’t have a better idea of what to do with my life. So, semester before that—” I wave at the photo on the TV, “—I got a job at a bar. And it was really fucking good. Job that let me do what I wanted, you know? Like— how’s that saying go? Work to live, not live to work? Something like that?”

Eames nods. “Wise choice.”

I nod back at him. It’s kinda nice, that he approves. “Then Christmas rolls around, right? And everyone’s sitting around the table, talking about my future, Arthur’s future, all that shit. And I’m— okay, I had a couple drinks.”

“Ah,” Eames says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly. So I’m sitting there, half-drunk, listening to everyone go on about my future, and how I have to do this, and I gotta do that. And I didn’t wanna hear one more fucking word. So I told them straight up, I’m dropping out.”

“I take it they weren’t pleased.”

“Fucking understatement, man. They went nuts. You ever been to an Italian family dinner?”

“Not a family dinner, but I’ve been to Italy a fair few times,” Eames says. “‘Passionate’ is a word that comes to mind.”

“Passionate.” I snort. “Jesus. Well, when an argument starts in an Italian family, it’s practically World War fucking Three. Like, I had my dad yelling at me, my mom begging me to change my mind, and everyone else telling me that I’m making a mistake, that I’m gonna regret it for the rest of my life—”

(Shit, I’m getting a headache just remembering it.)

“—and it was really getting to me, you know? I thought I was gonna end up punching someone, dig myself an even bigger hole. And then, all of a sudden, over the top of everyone's screaming, Arthur goes, ‘I'm joining the Marines’.”

Eames blinks. “What, just like that?”

“Yeah, man. Just like that. Came out of nowhere. Loud as fuck, too. Shut everyone up for a couple seconds.”

Eames smiles a little. “Then what happened?”

“What do you think? Everyone left me alone, and started freaking the fuck out at him.”

“I see,” Eames says. His smile widens. “Ever the mother hen, Arthur,” he adds, under his breath. He eyes the picture on screen for a moment longer, then restarts the slideshow.

There aren’t as many photos of Arthur anymore, though. There’s one of him after he finished OCS, another when he left for Afghanistan and another when he came back, then a couple more after he started working as a ‘systems analyst’. I don’t say much about those photos since I figure Eames already met Arthur by then, and Eames doesn’t ask about them.

I’m just starting to doze off in my chair, too drunk and tired to move, when Eames says, “Does Arthur have a copy of this?”

I jerk awake. “Huh?”

“Does Arthur have a copy?” Eames repeats patiently.

“I dunno.” I rub my face. “He was out of the country when Aunt Val handed them out to everyone, but I think she might have mailed his to him.”

“Perhaps we should make a copy for him, just in case,” Eames says. “Give it to him tomorrow.”

I almost say _I don't think Arthur gives a shit,_ but then I feel bad for thinking it. Of course Arthur gives a shit. He's just fucking awful at showing it.

“I guess we can do that,” I say. “I don’t know how, though. I can ask Monica, she’d probably know.” I start patting my pockets, trying to figure out where my phone is.

“Oh, there’s no need to bother her, I’ll take care of it.” Eames gets up to eject the DVD, patting me on the shoulder as he passes.

“Mm, okay,” I say happily, settling back in my chair.

My eyes drift half-shut as I watch Eames sticks the DVD into his laptop and start clicking around. Making a copy of Aunt Val’s slideshow for Arthur, being a— what’s that word? Considerate. Being a considerate boyfriend, even though Arthur obviously hasn’t been half as considerate.

“You know something, Eames?” I say, as I start to drift off properly. “You’re actually an okay guy.”

“Yes,” Eames says, smiling peacefully at his laptop screen. “I like to think I am too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I want to make everyone look at it, here's the photo Jon gifted Eames with:


	4. Chapter 4

Morning afters - and I mean all kinds of morning afters - fucking suck.

Like, the morning after an awesome night out, when you realise you gotta to go work? That sucks. Or the morning after a hookup, when the chick you thought was a nine when you were liquored up turns out to be a five - barely - in the harsh light of day? That sucks. Or the morning after a hard night of drinking, when you wake up with the sun in your eyes, your head pounding, and your stomach feeling like it’s trying to hurl itself out of your body? That. Fucking. Sucks.

I don’t have to go to work, at least, thanks to Eames’ medical certificate. And that second situation has never happened to me because, back when I picked up regularly, I never let myself get so shitfaced that I ended up with vodka vision. But the last one? Fuck me.

It’s been an hour since I woke up, and I haven’t moved, because I’m pretty sure if I move I’ll puke. I spent awhile trying to remember how much I had to drink last night, so I could figure out if I had alcohol poisoning, then gave up when I realised I couldn’t even remember what bar we went to.

Eames is awake, too.

I half-expected him to be a douchebag and make as much noise as possible, once he realised I was awake, but he’s actually been okay. He knocked on the door about half an hour ago, told me that he’d made a pot of coffee, then left me alone after I said thanks.

(At least, I think I said thanks. It might’ve come out as ‘ _hrngh_ ’.)

I guess he’s in a good mood, and on his best behaviour now, because Arthur’s on his way.

I’m not as happy about it.

It’s like— okay, on one hand, I want Arthur here so I can tear him a new one, and finally get my apartment to myself again. On the other hand, Arthur doesn’t handle being yelled at well. I mean, no one does, but Arthur doesn’t take it quietly, so we’re probably gonna end up screaming at each other, and _man_ , I have a fucking hangover.

Just the thought of it is making me tired, so I roll over, pull a pillow over my head, and try to go back to sleep.

I’ve barely managed to slip into a light doze when I’m jolted out of it by the sound of someone knocking - more like hammering - on my front door.

I hear Eames open the door, and then I hear him say, “ _Arthur,_ ” all surprised.

 _Arthur?_ I pull the pillow off my head, sit up— and instantly regret it, as my stomach tries to crawl up my throat.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur snaps, and yeah, that’s Arthur alright, even though that familiar, pissed-off tone sounds weird with his fake accent. “Did you forget how to answer your fucking phone? Where’s Jonny? Is he okay?”

“Of course he is,” Eames says. “And I’m fine, by the way, thank you for asking.”

“Don’t start,” Arthur says, as I heave myself out of bed and stagger to the door.

“I thought you said you were arriving tonight?”

“I _was,_ ” Arthur says, “until I tried calling you half a dozen times last night and got _no fucking answer._ ”

There’s a pause.

“Ah,” Eames says, delicately.

“I think I blew past every red light from the airport to here,” Arthur says, his tone of voice signalling that he’s working his way up to a good, long rant. “I thought something happened to you two. I thought— fuck, I don’t know, that Rebecca managed to get the drop on you, and—”

“If Rebecca or any of her cronies managed to get the better of me, I think the shame and humiliation would literally kill me.”

That stops Arthur’s rant dead. He makes a noise - some weird cross between a huff and a snort - then says, “Don’t think you’re off my shit list just because you made me laugh.”

“I’d never presume to think you’d be so easy.”

“Ha,” Arthur says. There’s the _clunk-clunk_ of something heavy being put down, and then his voice sharpens as he says, “Seriously though, where’s Jonny?”

That’s my cue to open the door, and step out.

“You owe me an explanation,” I tell Arthur. “And it better be a fucking good one.”

Arthur whirls around.

“Jonny, Jesus.” He breathes out in a loud _whoosh_ , shoulders sagging, then practically sprints toward me, saying, “Holy shit, thank God, I was so fucking worried—”

Now, I’m pretty fast on the ball normally. Like, my reflexes are good and all that. But I’m hungover today, and the sun is way too bright, hitting me right in the eyes, which is why I can’t do jack shit before Arthur brings his arms up, and wraps me - traps me, more like - in a bear hug.

“Nrgh,” I say. Arthur’s kinda scrawny, but that’s never really given him much trouble. My arms are pinned against my sides, my own elbows digging into my ribs, and Arthur’s _still_ squeezing tighter, Christ.

“Thank God,” Arthur says again, the words weird and muffled because his mouth is mashed against my shoulder. Or maybe it just sounds weird because he’s using his news reporter accent with _me_. “I was so worried, you have no idea _—_ ”

“Uh, yeah.” I pat Arthur on the back (as best as I can, with my arms trapped), and try to suck in a full breath.

This actually isn’t unusual. Arthur being all huggy and shit, I mean. He’s always been like this. Him and his dad both, although I don’t know where the fuck they get it from, because my dad and the rest of my uncles are definitely not down for the free hugs. But yeah, Arthur hugging me? Not that unusual, even though it always takes me a second or two before I hug him back.

(It’s not because he’s gay, alright? You can fuck right off if you think that’s the reason. Hugs are just— not comfortable when you’re not expecting them, okay?)

But even though I’m pretty much used to Arthur hugging me, it only ever happens when it’s just the two of us, or around family.

Well. Until now, that is.

“I’m okay, man,” I say, as Eames smirks at me over Arthur’s shoulder. “Seriously.”

Arthur doesn’t budge. He just hangs on, like a human octopus, until the hug goes from bearable to, well… not.

“God, Arthur, you fucking weirdo,” I mutter. I dig my knuckles into his ribs (he’s ticklish there) until he loosens his arms. “Let go already.”

Arthur pulls back a little, but doesn’t let go of me entirely. He grips my shoulders instead, holding me at arm’s length, so he can look me up and down. The relief on his face vanishes.

I squint at him. “What?”

Arthur’s only response is to grab me by the elbow, his face returning to that pissed off, constipated mode.

“ _What?_ ” I say again, then, “oh, _fuck,_ ” as Arthur drags me over to the window and I get a faceful of sun, but Arthur talks over the top of me, saying:

“Jesus, Eames, I thought you said he was fine! You said it wasn’t serious, whatever Rebecca dosed him with!”

“He _is_ fine, and it wasn’t serious!” Eames says, but he retreats behind the kitchen counter, like he thinks Arthur is going to lunge at him at any moment.

Arthur grips my chin with his free hand, and turns my head from side to side. “He looks like death warmed over,” he snaps. “How is that fine?”

“I think you’re exaggerating just a tad—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” I say, pulling away. “I’m right fucking here, don’t talk about me like I’m not here. And I’m _fine,_ ” I tell Arthur. “It’s just a hangover.” I wave a hand at Eames. “We went out drinking.”

“You—” Arthur stops. “You two went out for drinks.” He looks at me, then at Eames, with the weirdest look on his face. “You two. Together.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s what I said. Why? You got a problem with that?”

“Do I have a problem with—? Are you seriously—” Arthur splutters like that for a couple more seconds, then grabs my arm again. “I need to talk to you.”

“So talk,” I say, trying to wriggle my arm out from his grip.

Arthur hangs on like a leech. “I need to talk to you in private,” he says, as he starts hauling me toward my bedroom. He points at Eames with his free hand. “You. Stay.”

“Arf,” Eames says, sounding more amused than pissed at Arthur ordering him around. He goes over to my kettle (actually Esther’s kettle), and pats it. “I assume you’re going to be a while, so if you don’t mind, Jon, I think I’ll make myself a cup of tea.”

“Fine,” I say, as Arthur keeps dragging me along. “But don’t _—_ ”

“Don’t leave the fucking tea bag in the fucking sink again,” Eames says, imitating my accent.

“God, you’re a dick,” I say, refusing to crack a smile.

Arthur gives us another disbelieving look, then hauls me into the bedroom, and slams the door shut. He turns to look at me, arms crossed, his mouth tight with what seems like disapproval.

“What?” I say, crossing my arms as well.

“What the fuck was all that?” Arthur asks, jerking his head in the direction of the living room. Now that we’re alone, he’s magically gone back to his normal accent. “Are you and Eames best buddies or something now? Going out drinking, having little domestic arguments about tea bags—”

“Domestic arguments? The fuck?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Nevermind. It’s just— whatever friendship you’ve struck up with Eames, you need to put an end to it. Right now.”

I squint at him. “Are you… jealous or something?” I raise my hands. “I don’t swing that way, man. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not jealous,” Arthur snaps. “That’s ridiculous. _You’re_ ridiculous.”

“Well, you’re getting kinda worked up for a guy who’s not jealous.” I spread my hands, shrugging. “Just saying.”

“That is _not_ why— I’m not even—” Arthur stops and takes a deep breath. “Look, the thing is— you can’t trust Eames, okay? I know he might seem funny and suave and charming and all that, but—”

“I don't think he’s suave,” I say, making a face. “Or charming. Projecting much?”

Arthur’s mouth tightens again. “Whatever,” he says. “That’s not important. All I’m saying is, it’s not a good idea to get friendly with Eames, okay? Nine times out of ten, if he’s being nice and charming, he’s got an ulterior motive.” He pauses. “Uh, that means—”

“I know what ‘ulterior motive’ means, fuckface.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, doubtful. “Okay.”

Christ. Arthur’s got this way of talking, right? Like he thinks everyone around him is ten years old and dumber than a bag of rocks. It just makes you want to punch him in the fucking face.

“Also, for your information,” I say, “we went out drinking because it was Eames’ way of apologising for messing with my locks. And my car. Not to mention all the shit with Rebecca.”

Arthur makes a frustrated sound. “ _That,_ ” he hisses, jabbing a finger at me. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. Eames wouldn’t care about apologising for something like that. He took you out because he wanted something. _That’s_ the kind of person he is. He lies for a living. You can’t trust him.”

I squint at him. “Okay, one, that is a messed up way to talk about your boyfriend, and two,” I scoff, “he lies for a living? Kind of like you do, you mean? Does that mean I shouldn’t trust you either?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Jonny,” Arthur says, and the urge to punch him in the face grows. “We’re family. It’s different.”

“Is it?” I say. “Because the way I see it is, at least Eames is upfront about being a shady, lying motherfucker. You, though—” I gesture up and down at him. “Look at you, acting like you’re some legit businessman, with your fake fucking accent, being all high and mighty and shit, telling me who I can and can’t trust. Fuck you, man.”

“I’m not being high and mighty,” Arthur says, scowling. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“I don’t need you to look out for me,” I say. “What I need is an apology—”

“I already said I was sorry!”

“—but an explanation of what the fuck is going on would be even better,” I finish.

Arthur throws his hands up. “I told you! You’re better off not knowing the details.”

“That’s bullshit,” I say. “Because, hey, guess who almost got abducted? Guess who nearly got his brains scooped out, even though he was totally in the dark about everything? That’s right, this guy.” I point at myself. “Knowing nothing has protected me against shit all. So you better give me something, because I’m not gonna let you leave this room until—” I stop as a thought hits me. Then: “Dinner.”

Arthur looks confused. “What?”

“Dinner,” I say again. “You know, Sunday family dinners? You and your parents came to them every couple weeks for, like, eighteen years?” At Arthur’s confused nod, I say, “Well, you gotta come this week. My mom knows you’re in town, and she already told me I need to bring you.”

“Can’t do it,” Arthur says immediately. “I’m leaving Sunday morning.”

“Wow, convenient.”

Arthur scowls. “I _am_ leaving on Sunday.”

“Well, the day doesn’t actually fucking matter. She said that.”

“Did she say it in those exact words?” Arthur asks dryly.

I flip him off. “Mom told me to bring you, so I’m gonna do that, and--don’t shake your head at me. I’ve already had a shitty couple of days because of you. I’m not gonna put up with my mom complaining about how I’m too lazy to even give you a dinner invite on top of that.”

Because that’s exactly how it’ll go down. It won’t be, _oh, how could Arthur be so selfish, not even dropping by to see his poor Aunt Angela?_ It’ll be, _how hard could it be, Jonny? Why do you always do this?_ And, _man,_ I am not taking that kind of grief for Arthur.

Arthur heaves a huge, put upon sigh. “Fine,” he says. “Will you get off my case now?”

I snort. “Fuck, no. That’s like the bare fucking minimum of what you owe me. I still want that explanation.”

I brace myself for Arthur’s ‘the less you know, the better’ bullshit, but Arthur doesn’t try feeding me that line again. Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose, and starts pacing around my room, frowning hard.

I kick back on my bed, waiting, because I know this routine. This is how Arthur acts when he doesn’t like any of the options in front of him, and he’s trying to work out which one sucks the least. Last time I saw him like this, it was because his mom had a fit about Arthur wanting to go to college on the other side of the country. I mean, she already wasn’t happy at the thought of him going out of the tri-state area, so when Arthur tried floating the idea of California or Washington? Man, you would’ve thought Arthur was dying, the way she carried on.

In the end, Arthur gave up on the idea, because Aunt Maria seriously seemed like she was going to have a stroke if he didn’t. He wasn’t exactly happy about it, though. Spent a week pacing around - just like he’s doing now, but more crazy around the eyes - trying to work out how far away he could get without driving his mom to an early grave.

“Alright,” Arthur says, breaking into my thoughts. I look up at him. He’s standing at the end of my bed, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders almost hunched. “I’ll explain… some things to you, okay? But not right now, and not everything.”

“Why not right now?”

Arthur looks… not shifty, exactly, but something close to it. “Your blood alcohol level needs to be closer to zero,” he says, which makes no sense. “And I’m starving. I’m going to get breakfast. I’ll bring something back for you.” He turns toward the door. “Also, you _really_ need to take a shower.”

 

* * *

 

I take a shower.

Not because Arthur told me to, but because I believe in good goddamn hygiene. Making people smell your BO is straight up caveman shit.

I only mean to take a short shower - ten minutes, tops - but the hot water feels awesome, and I end up standing under the spray for— I don’t even know how long, just letting my mind go blank. Some people like to do their hard thinking in the shower, but not me. Why mess up prime relaxation time by thinking about shit and stressing?

Once I step out of the shower and start getting dressed, though, this little thought creeps up on me, all quiet and sneaky-like: how can I be sure that Arthur will tell me the truth?

I mean, before now, I would’ve just taken Arthur at his word. He’s my cousin, I know him. I know he’s a straightforward, no bullshit kind of guy. Now, though? I don’t know this Arthur. For all I know, this Arthur might only give me half the story. And after the shit I’ve been through these past couple of days, nothing but the whole fucking truth is gonna be good enough.

So I don’t go out straight away.

Instead, I turn on the tap, grab my toothbrush (just in case Arthur busts in, wondering why I’m still in here with the shower off), and start eavesdropping like a motherfucker.

It’s pretty easy to do, even with the tap running, because the building’s old, and the walls are thin as shit. I’m barely straining my ears, and I can hear Arthur and Eames perfectly.

Problem is, hearing them perfectly means jackshit when I can’t understand a thing they’re saying.

Like, I understand the _words_ \- they’re not speaking in Russian or anything - but I don’t get what it’s all about. I hear _Rebecca_ being said a lot (which makes sense), as well as the words _compound_ and _sedation_ (which makes less sense, and is kinda worrying), so I figure it’s shop talk. Criminal shop talk. But what _kind_ of criminal shop talk?

“Thank you,” I hear Arthur blurt out suddenly. “For— you know. Coming out here. Looking out for Jonny. And I’m—” there’s a short, strained pause. “I’m sorry for flipping out at you before.”

“Well,” Eames says, after his own pause, “I won’t say ‘think nothing of it’ because I do expect some sort of recompense for all my trouble. And it wasn’t quite what I would call a pleasure—”

 _Fuck you, too, Eames,_ I think.

“—but, contrary to my expectations,” Eames goes on, “it hasn’t been a complete nightmare.”

“Jonny grew on you, huh?” Arthur says. He sounds… I dunno. Pleased, I guess. Or maybe fond, although I have no clue whether the fondness is for me or for Eames. Whichever it is, it gets Arthur saying, in the most laidback voice I’ve heard him use since he walked in: “So, about that recompense— how does three days sound?”

“Three days?” Eames makes a _pfft_ sound. “It sounds rather miserly of you.”

“What?” Arthur replies. “Three days is how long you spent here. It’s a fair exchange.”

“And who said anything about this being a fair exchange? I’ll have you know I charge exorbitant fees for my services.”

“What counts as an exorbitant fee when the currency in play is sex?” Arthur wonders.

 _Ugh,_ I think. _Gross._

“ _And_ —” Eames continues, an almost whine entering his voice, “I was planning on visiting Atlantic City. I’ve never been before. I was also going to go to Vegas. This detour has cut my leisure time short. I was going to relax, recuperate. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. It takes me longer to bounce back, and now that—”

“You know, I was just thinking that,” Arthur says, too innocent. “You really aren’t as young as you used to be. Can your stamina really handle three days? I mean, maybe we should cut it down to one day, and figure out some alternative payment that doesn’t take so much out of you.”

Long, long silence.

“You have offended my honour,” Eames says finally. “I demand satisfaction.”

“Do you?” Arthur says. “Are we going to be drawing pistols at dawn? Metaphorical pistols?”

“But of course. Although not at dawn. Some time closer to noon, perhaps.” Eames sniffs. “And it’s going to have to be five days, at the very least, to make up for that slight.”

“Wow,” Arthur says. “This is going to be a such a hardship. I have no idea how I’m going to manage.”

“Oh, you jest now, but just you wait. I’m going to run you ragged.”

I stare at my reflection grumpily while Arthur laughs. Like, what did I do to deserve this? I’m hiding in my _own fucking bathroom,_ listening to my cousin and his boyfriend do their gay mating ritual, and I can’t even tell them to cut it out, because they could go back to talking about non-gay shit any second now.

‘Any second’ actually comes a minute or two later, when Arthur heaves a huge sigh.

“All jokes aside, though,” he says, “I think I’m the one who’s getting old.”

“You? Psh, never,” Eames replies. “You’ll likely remain criminally fresh-faced to the end of your days.”

Arthur laughs quietly. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Do you know what I’ve been saying to myself, these past few days? ‘Things didn’t used to be like this’. I’m one step away from telling the rookies to get off my lawn.” He groans. “Maybe Jonny’s right. Maybe I should get out while the going’s still good, before some jumped-up asshole decides taking me out will get him a bit of cred.”

“Or you could do what you’ve always done,” Eames says, “which is make yourself indispensable to the community. Everyone knows their lives are infinitely easier with you alive than dead.”

I make a face. The way they talk about being killed, all casual and shit, gives me the creeps.

“How long is that going to last? A team came after my _cousin_. When we first got started in this line of work, family was off-fucking-limits.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Arthur,” Eames says, after a short silence. “It’s your life.”

Arthur grunts. “It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to provide me with a magic solution.”

“Will an enthusiastic handjob help lighten your mood at all?”

Aw, _fuck_ no. I throw my toothbrush down and turn off the tap, ready to run out and tell Eames to knock it off—

“Jonny would kill you,” Arthur says, saving me the trouble.

“No, he wouldn’t. It’d be far too messy, and he’d have to clean up all the blood.”

Jackass.

Arthur starts laughing again. “Thanks for the offer,” he says, “but I’d rather fuck you properly, in a bed.”

“My God, you just turned down a handjob. Perhaps you _are_ getting old.”

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur says, a smile in his voice, and then they both go quiet.

 _Suspiciously_ quiet, I realise, as I yank the door open, and stick my head out, eyes narrowed.

Arthur and Eames both turn to look at me.

They’re standing pretty close together. Not up-in-each-other’s-business close - their hands are wrapped around little takeaway cups, rather than each other’s dicks - but— still. They’re standing closer than they need to be for regular conversation. And I can’t tell for sure, but Arthur’s mouth might be redder than usual. (There’s no point looking at Eames too closely, seeing as he’s got, like, permanent porn star mouth.)

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I say, still squinting suspiciously. When Arthur squints back, I turn my attention to the food sitting on the kitchen counter. Turns out I was in the shower long enough for Arthur to leave and come back with— “McDonald’s breakfast?” I duck back into the bathroom to put my toothbrush back neatly. “You make all that fucking money, and you buy _McDonald’s_?”

The first time I said that to Arthur, he was fourteen years old, and spending his first paycheck. Sixteen years later, it’s become a lame-ass joke between us. I walk out just in time to hear Arthur say, like he always does, “McDonald’s breakfast is the shit,” in his normal accent, and see Eames do the mother of all spit-takes.

“What?” Arthur says, frowning as Eames hacks on his tea.

“That's—” Eames makes an effort to clear his throat. “That’s a fascinating accent you were sporting just now. And ‘the shit’? Really?”

Arthur blinks, getting that stunned, staring-off-into-space look that people get when they’re replaying the last few seconds of the conversation in their head. Then he looks embarrassed (which kind of annoys me, because why should he be embarrassed about his - _our_ \- accent?).

“You’ve never heard him talk normally?” I say to Eames, while Arthur blanks out. “Are you for fucking real?”

“Yes,” Eames says gravely, even as his mouth twitches up into a grin. “I am for fucking real.”

I side-eye Arthur. Like, I thought he’d already know that pretending to be someone else isn’t how you make a relationship last. I mean, even _I’ve_ figured that out, and Arthur’s supposed to be the smart one.

Arthur gives us both one of his laser beam glares, probably to cover his embarrassment. It doesn’t work on me - I got enough of them when we were growing up, I’m immune. Eames doesn’t look too bothered either, but maybe it has a secret effect on him, because he makes an effort to stop grinning.

“All part of the misdirection to draw attention away from your family, I assume,“ he says. “Probably a good idea. The accent is rather distinctive.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says, with zero percent happiness. “So glad to have your approval.”

He stays in that bitch mood for the rest of breakfast, too, picking at Eames for every little thing. He doesn’t talk to Eames so much as interrogates him - is Eames sure Rebecca and her crazy crew left town, is he absolutely fucking sure, how did Eames make sure they were gone? - and then, after he’s satisfied, he switches to chewing Eames out for taking me out drinking after I was drugged.

Eames takes it all with amazing patience - he even looks amused at some points - but when he gets up to go to the bathroom, I lean over and grab Arthur by the arm.

“Holy shit, bro,” I say, lowering my voice so Eames won’t hear. “You need to turn it down.”

Arthur frowns at me the way he frowns at Uncle Sal at Christmas, when Sal’s had a few too many drinks and starts talking about Hollywood being controlled by the Illuminati. It’s a _I’m doing my best to understand you, but I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about_ sort of frown.

“The attitude,” I explain. “You need to stop giving your boyfriend so much attitude just because you’re— I dunno, embarrassed or whatever.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” Arthur wrinkles his nose. “And I told you to stop with the warm fuzzies when it comes to Eames. You don’t have to worry about his feelings. He’s a big boy. If he doesn’t like my ‘attitude’,” he actually makes air quotes, because he’s that much of a dickhead, “he can tell me himself. As a matter of fact, he _has_ told me before.”

“And yet you’re still being a pissy bitch to him,” I point out. “Look— I get that whole thing about how you shouldn’t have to change who you are because you’re in a relationship, but I know you’re capable of not being a dick. You do it all the time when you’re around the rest of our family.” Not to mention he was managing it thirty minutes ago, while I was in the bathroom.

Arthur’s still looking at me like I’m Uncle Sal.

I sigh, because how can someone as smart as Arthur be so fucking dumb? “All I’m saying is, Eames isn’t like those poor fuckers who used to follow you around in high school.” Probably in college, too, but I wasn’t around to witness that sorry shit. “He’s—” I stop, and look at the bathroom door. Eames still hasn’t come out, which means either he’s taking a dump, or he’s eavesdropping. My money’s on eavesdropping, so I lower my voice even more. “I mean he’s— you know. He’s hot.”

Arthur’s stare turns disbelieving.

“I’m not gay for him, stop looking at me like that.” Jesus, what is it with gay guys thinking straight guys are secretly gay? “I’ve just got eyes, that’s all. And what I’m telling you is, you keep doing this Katy Perry hot and cold shit, he’s gonna leave your ass, and then you’ll end up alone, like one of those old ladies with a million fucking cats.”

“A cat lady?” Arthur says, mock-helpfully.

“Yeah, a cat lady,” I say, refusing to take the bait. “But a guy version. A cat dude.”

“Are you—” Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Are you seriously giving me relationship advice? Is that what’s happening here?”

“You don’t have to sound so amazed.”

“Sorry,” Arthur says, sounding anything but. “It’s just— correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve only had one girlfriend, right? Like, an actual girlfriend, not a one-night stand, or a three-night stand, or whatever number of nights is your maximum limit—”

Technically I’ve had two girlfriends now, because of Esther, but— “So what?”

“—and you didn’t even make it to the six month mark with that girlfriend,” Arthur says. “So who are you to lecture me on relationships?”

I lift my hands. “Hey, I’m just trying to help you out.”

“I don’t need you to. Me and Eames aren’t— it’s not serious.”

“Sure,” I say, thinking of Eames’ sad expression when he said he thought Arthur’s family was dead. I don’t remember everything from last night, but I remember that. “Maybe it’s not that serious for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur’s eyes widen. “Did Eames— did he say something to you?”

“He didn’t have to,” I say. “Like I said, I’ve got eyes.”

“Oh.” Arthur relaxes abruptly. “So this is all just your opinion.”

I start to tell him it’s all fucking _fact_ , but the toilet flushes then, and Eames wanders out a few moments later.

Arthur swivels on his stool to face Eames. “When are you leaving for Vegas?” he asks. Demands, actually. He’s clearly not taking my advice to be nicer, so I kick him in the ankle. Arthur flashes an annoyed look at me, then turns an expectant one on Eames.

“My flight was yesterday,” Eames says. “I didn’t catch it, for obvious reasons.”

Arthur blinks. Opens and closes his mouth. “Oh. I didn’t—” He lets out a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t realise.”

 _That’s better,_ I mouth at him, nodding. Arthur squints at me again, then pushes the rest of the hash browns in my direction.

Now, usually ‘shut up and eat’ doesn’t work on me, because, c’mon, if I _really_ wanna talk, I’ll just talk with my mouth full. But McDonald’s hash browns are the shit, so I shut up and eat while Arthur and Eames talk.

“How long can you stay?” Arthur asks Eames. He’s hovering somewhere between his real accent and his fake one, which seems to amuse the hell out of Eames.

“I have nothing lined up for the rest of the month,” he says. “Why?”

Arthur clears his throat. “I’d like your assistance on a militarisation job,” he says, very, very slowly.

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Alright.” He seems slightly surprised. “When, where, and who?”

“Here, as soon as physically possible, and— well…” Arthur trails off, then glances at me.

Eames looks back and forth between us - three times - then makes a weird choking sound. “You want to militarise _him_?” He points at me, just to make things perfectly clear. “A bit overkill, don’t you think?”

I swallow my mouthful of hash brown, and raise my hands. "Yo, I don’t wanna join the military.” I point at Arthur. “That was your thing, man, not mine.”

“That’s not what militarisation—” Arthur sighs. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to go into it now. It’ll be easier to explain when I—” he waves a hand out, vaguely. “When I explain all the other stuff.”

“The other—?” Eames gapes. “Hang on. Do you mean you’re going to tell him all about—” he gestures at Arthur’s luggage, for some reason. “What happened to ‘he doesn’t know anything about our line of work, Eames, and it better stay that way’?”

Arthur crosses his arms. “I changed my mind, is what happened.”

“You changed your mind,” Eames repeats, flatly. “You’re telling me I went through days of ridiculous secrecy and skullduggery—”

“Skullduggery?” me and Arthur say, at the same time.

“—for no reason, because here you are, mind changed.” Eames shakes his head. “Unbelievable.” He leans back against the counter, arms also crossed. He eyes Arthur for a while, thoughtful, then says, conversationally, “If I come on board for this militarisation job, that exorbitant fee is going to become even more so. Although the currency remains unchanged.”

Ew.

Arthur raises his eyebrows, surprised. His mouth works weirdly for a moment, before curving up into a half-smile. “I think I can afford it.”

I really fucking regret eavesdropping on them.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Mom.”

“Jonny!” My mom’s voice fades out a little, like she’s holding the phone away from her mouth: “It’s my son. He calls me every week, at least once.”

There’s a chorus of approving noises from what has to be my mom’s friends, and I get that kind of embarrassed, kind of guilty feeling I always get when my mom says good shit about me that isn’t true. I mean, I _do_ call her - I’m not a dickhead. But I see her every Sunday for dinner, so it’s not like I need to call her _every_ week.

“So, Arthur’s here,” I say, after she finishes bragging-not-bragging about what a good son I am and puts the phone back to her ear. “He got in this morning. And yeah,” I add, before she can ask, “we’re coming to dinner. Friday night.”

“Oh, _good!_ ” Her voice fades out again as she says, “Jonny and my nephew coming over for dinner, they always make time, even though they’re so busy, they’re such good boys, ” which gets another round of approving noises.

I try not to sigh, while my mom starts thinking out loud about what meals Arthur might like, mixed in with gossip about friends (the ones who aren’t sitting right beside her) and people from church. Apparently she’s been to one funeral and two weddings (one where the bride wore pink - _in church!_ ), and she’s been invited to the baptism party for Teresa’s grandson.

That last part probably should’ve been a red fucking flag or something. But I’m only half-listening by that point, so it catches me totally off-guard when my mom says, casual as a punch to the face: “You know, it’s all gotten me wondering… have you heard from Barbara lately?”

Thank God we’re on the phone. It means she can’t see me cringing as I say, “No. And I don’t think I’m going to.”

“Oh,” is all my mom says. You wouldn’t think it was possible to pack so much into one little word, but my mom somehow manages it, and the embarrassed, guilty feeling gets worse.

“I’m gonna— I’ll let you get back to your friends,” I say, mumbling a little, and hang up before she can say anything else.

Thing is, I don’t think my mom _actually_ wants me to get back with Barbara. At least, I really hope she doesn’t, because it’d be a terrible idea, and my sister has already laid out to her all the reasons why it’d be a terrible idea. But it’s— you know. All - literally _all_ \- of my mom’s friends are proud grandmothers already, and, in her mind, the only way I can be completely happy is if I’m married with kids. It’s fucking exhausting.

I rub my forehead, sighing. The headache that eased up in the shower is back like it never left, and - after checking all my drawers and the medicine cabinet - it turns out I’m all out of Advil.

When I come out, Arthur and Eames are sitting at the coffee table, a mess of papers surrounding them. Their heads are bent close together, and Arthur isn’t trying to bite Eames’ head off anymore, so maybe he’s listening to my advice, for once.

“I’m going out,” I tell them.

“Okay,” Arthur says, distracted. But the instant he looks up at me, his gaze sharpens, and he frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” I lie. “It’s just this hangover is still messing with me, so I’m gonna grab some Advil.” When Arthur’s frown doesn’t budge, I add, quickly, “Don’t get up to anything while I’m gone. I don’t want any gross stains on my furniture.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, frown gone. “We’ll try to suppress our overwhelming sexual urges,” he says, deadpan, looking back down at the papers, while Eames makes a thoughtful face.

“So, hypothetically speaking,” Eames says, “if we cleaned up the stains before you returned—”

I cut him off with a warning sound, and point at them just before I’m out the door, suspicious. “Don’t. Do. Anything.”

 

* * *

 

Now, like I said before, the walls in my building are thin, and the doors aren’t exactly the thickest either. It’s not the worst thing in the world, really. But it also means that, even when I’m not trying to listen in— well, sometimes I don’t have a choice.

I’m standing outside my apartment, Advil in hand, digging around for my keys with my other hand, when I hear Eames say:

“I, ah— I see you’ve inherited Cobb’s passive.”

I blink, confused. I can think of a lot of words to describe Arthur (not all of them nice), but ‘passive’ has never been one of them.

“Yeah,” Arthur says slowly. “And?”

Eames says something, too low for me to make out, but it makes Arthur laugh, loud and clear.

“God,” Arthur says, “I knew you’d come up with something like that the second you laid eyes on Jonny.”

I freeze, the keys in my hand.

“It wasn’t the _second_ I saw him,” Eames says. “But you’re right, it’s hardly surprising. After all, what could be better than having one of you in my bed? Why, having two of you in my bed, of course.”

If it was possible for me to freeze up any further, I would’ve. I mean, what the fuck. What the everloving _fuck_ —

 _Nine times out of ten,_ Arthur said, _if he’s being nice and charming, he’s got an ulterior motive._

But that is just— that’s so—

“That is fucking disgusting!” I say, getting the door open and slamming my way inside.

Arthur and Eames jump about six feet away from each other, which would normally be kind of funny, but right now, it just makes them look sketchy as fuck.

“Jonny, what the fuck?” Arthur says, staring.

“What the fuck?” I repeat. “You’re saying what the fuck to _me_? Why aren’t you saying it to him?” I point at Eames. “Why aren’t you and telling him how gross that is, instead of standing around laughing? We’re related, you sick fuck.” That last one is directed at Eames. “And God, for the last time, _I am not into dick._ ”

Eames opens his mouth, but Arthur waves at him to be quiet, then makes these little calming motions at me, like he’s trying to tame a feral animal.

“Seriously, Jonny,” Arthur says, “what’re you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” I say, slowly and clearly, because if Arthur’s going to play dumb, I’m gonna treat him like he’s dumb, “is how your boyfriend wants us in some freaky-deaky three-way so he can— I don’t know, live out some twin fantasy.” I jab my finger at Eames again. “It is _not_ happening.”

“Oh my God,” Arthur says, in a faraway voice, looking queasy - _about fucking time_ , I think - while Eames—

Eames bursts into this hooting, whooping laughter that makes him sound like a fucking demented seal.

“That is _not_ what we were—” Arthur’s voice trembles, and a grin splits his face for a second as Eames keeps laughing. “Eames, shut up.”

Eames only half-obeys, bringing his laughter down to a snicker. It’s better than nothing, I guess.

Arthur turns back to me. “This is a misunderstanding. A huge one. You didn’t hear what you think you did.”

“Oh, really?” I say. “I didn’t hear your boyfriend talking about having the two of us in his bed? I misunderstood that?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, firmly. “You did.” When I narrow my eyes at him, he sighs. “It’s difficult to explain, okay? I don’t think I can explain it properly. But I think…” he tilts his head. “I think I can show you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s not that simple, of course, because whenever Arthur actually wants to tell you something, he has to make a fucking production out of it. It’s like he’s trying to say: _hey, I don’t tell people things often, but I’m telling you something now, so you better appreciate how rare it is and pay attention_. Arthur’s a dramatic fucker, is what I’m saying.

Anyway.

To make sure he has my complete attention, Arthur drags me out to lunch. The place he takes me to looks pretty expensive, but the food isn’t anything special. I barely remember eating lunch, but I must have, because there’s an empty plate in front of me, scattered with crumbs. And I guess the serving was huge enough to put me into a food coma, because I’m jolted from my zone out when Arthur says:

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Huh?” I look down. I’m wearing my good red velvet suit, which I haven’t worn since Frankie and Sharon’s wedding. “Hey, nice.”

“No, _not_ nice.” Arthur’s mouth twists. “You look like you’re wearing a fucking armchair.”

“Fuck off, I look good,” I say, adjusting my tie and checking out my reflection in the window.

Arthur huffs. He pauses while a waiter comes by to collect our plates, then leans to the side, saying, “So, this is what I have to show you.” He straightens up, and sets the suitcase he brought with him - the metal one - down on the table. “This is the Portable Automated Somnacin Intravenous Device,” he says, stroking the lid. “P-A-S-I-V— PASIV, for short. This is what everything has been about, in a way.”

He sounds… proud. Like he gave birth to the suitcase or something. I don’t see what the big deal is - I mean, it’s a suitcase - until Arthur flips the locks and pulls the lid up, and inside—

Man, I don’t even know how to describe what’s inside. It’s like someone got a bunch of metal tubes and glass containers and wires and shit, and glued them all over the inside of the suitcase.

“Okay,” I say, then add: “What is all this?” because Arthur is obviously expecting me to. “I mean, what does it do?”

Arthur clears his throat and says, very seriously, “The PASIV administers a drug called Somnacin,” he points at the glass containers, “which allows you to enter into a single shared dream with anyone else who’s hooked up.”

I look up at him.

Arthur stares back at me, dead fucking serious.

I look at the drug suitcase again (alright, fine, the PASIV), and try to work out how badly it’ll go down if I call everyone up, saying we need to have an intervention or something, because Arthur’s been spending the past couple of years tripping balls over a suitcase.

“I know what you're thinking,” Arthur says. “I’m not high, and I’m not an addict.”

“That’s what all the junkies say.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Look, just— it’ll be easier if I explain how it all works first, okay?”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

Arthur reels one of the tubes out from the suitcase, and shows me the needle on the end. “This will inject a compound into you—”

Inject a compound into you. _Pfft._ “Look, you can phrase it however you want,” I say, “but a classy way of shooting up is still shooting up.”

“ _I’m not—_ ” Arthur throws his hands up. “God. This is another reason I don’t come home more often. You all manage to drive me insane without even trying.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the drugs and associating with crazy kidnappers has got nothing to do with it.”

“Jonny,” Arthur says, teeth clenched, “will you shut your mouth for five goddamn minutes so I can finish explaining how this works?”

“Sorry, your highness.” I wave a hand. “Go ahead.”

Arthur scowls at me, then goes through the rest of his spiel about how the PASIV works. Blah blah blah, press the big white button, designer drugs go in, and everyone starts hallucinating that they’re in the same fucking dream.

(See, this is why I never do anything harder than pot. With anything else, you’re just asking to get your brain fucked up.)

“Now, the thing that you have to remember about dreams,” Arthur goes on, like he has no idea how batshit crazy he sounds, “is that our minds create information - create the world of the dream - at the same time we experience it. It’s— Jonny. This is important. Pay attention.” Arthur takes a deep breath. “Think for a moment: how did we get here?”

The fuck?

“We drove here,” I say slowly. In Arthur’s rental car, because _someone’s_ boyfriend hotwired my car. “From my apartment,” I add, just in case Arthur’s drug habit has killed his short-term memory.

Arthur stares.

“Okay,” he says slowly, seemingly confused. He blinks down at the PASIV, then closes it and scoops it up. “Come on.” He stands. “Come with me.”

We head toward the elevators, but at the last minute, Arthur makes a sharp turn left and opens the fire exit.

“This way,” he says, and leads me up the gloomy concrete stairwell.

Now, usually going _up_ a fire escape sets off an alarm, but nothing goes off, even after we’ve cleared what seems like three or four floors.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Instead of answering, Arthur says, “Another thing that you need to keep in mind about dreams is that the normal rules of physics don't apply. You can twist things into impossible shapes, create things that don’t - _can’t_ \- exist in reality.”

“Yeah, sure,” I sigh. I don’t really want to listen to Arthur’s drug-fucked crazy talk anymore. When we reach a landing, I grab him by the elbow and force him to stop. “Arthur— listen. If you’ve been… you know, getting involved with all this criminal shit because you’ve been trying to pay for—” I wave at the PASIV rather than say ‘your drug habit’, because I’m polite like that, then trail off.

I mean, what the fuck can I say? Or do? It’s not like I can drag Arthur to rehab. I’m pretty sure people have to give consent for that. And there’s no way Arthur’s gonna give consent because—

“Oh my God,” Arthur says, “will you let go of the idea that I’m on drugs?”

“I’ll let go of the idea when you actually quit being on drugs,” I shoot back.

“You are _so_ —” Arthur cuts himself off with a huff. “Think for a second, Jonny. How long have we been climbing these stairs?”

“Why are you—” I sigh again when Arthur gives me a stubborn look. “God, I don’t know. A couple minutes?”

“Right,” Arthur says. “So where’s the end?”

“Jesus, are you high right now?” I turn and point up the stairs. “It’s right up there.”

Except it isn’t.

It’s just— stairs.

I climb a few steps. Then a couple more. Then I just start walking, counting out the seconds, then the minutes, in my head. There’s no exit in sight. I might as well be walking on one of those fucking stair machines, for all the progress I seem to be making.

Holy shit, am _I_ high?

“This is what I was talking about,” Arthur says, coming up behind me. “In dreams, you can create the impossible.” He takes me by the shoulder, guides me to another landing, then directs my attention down. “See?”

It’s not endless stairs. It’s a— fuck, I don’t know, one loop of stairs. Except it’s not a loop, because there’s a giant fucking drop from the landing we’re standing on to the next flight of stairs, which doesn’t make any _sense_ , because I was climbing it the whole time, but if it’s a loop, then how—

I stare. “This is a dream.” And the words sound just as crazy coming out of my mouth, but— _shit_.

“Yup,” Arthur says, like it’s nothing, like it’s completely normal. I guess, it is, for him. He tugs on my shoulder, and when I look at him, I see he’s got this bright, wide grin on his face, like an excited little kid. “Come on. I’ll show you everything else.”

 

* * *

 

I think there’s, like, a limit to how much crazy shit your brain can handle before it starts switching off.

Like, after Arthur showed me he could take that loop trick he used on the stairs, and apply it to _everything_? That he could twist the whole world - the dream world, dreamscape, whatever - in on itself like a pretzel, until there was blue sky and fluffy clouds on either side of me and sidewalks overhead, full of people just doing their thing, like being fucking _upside down_ was no biggie—

Yeah, I kinda checked out after that.

I mean, I was still listening to Arthur’s long-ass explanation, but it was a _sure, uh-huh, okay_ sort of listening.

You can create the impossible using the PASIV? Yeah, sure you can.

Time moves faster in a dream than in reality? Uh-huh.

Projections are the manifestations of the subject’s subconscious mind, and take the form of people you’ve seen or know? Okay, sure.

(Okay, I’ll admit, Arthur had to explain that last one again, with different words. But _after_ I got it, I was like, _okay, sure_. At least now I understand what ‘two Arthurs’ means. It’s still kinda gross, but it’s not as gross as the thought of being in a three-way with Eames and my cousin, so… yeah.)

Arthur just kept talking and talking and fucking _talking_ , and I swear to God, when everyone around us, the projections, went insane and tried to kill him, I wasn’t exactly surprised. It’s self-preservation, right? They’re supposed to be part of my brain, and I don’t think my brain could’ve handled much more, checked out or not.

What did surprise me, though, was when Arthur pulled a gun out of nowhere, and _shot me_.

“That was not fucking cool, bro,” I tell him, after we’re both awake, and Eames has removed the IVs from our arms.

“I know, sorry,” Arthur says, with a small shrug. He doesn’t look sorry. “But dying is the only way to wake up before the timer runs out, and I was _not_ waiting around while your projections were feeling homicidal.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have folded the ground up like one of those origami things,” I say. “I mean, way to call attention to yourself.”

Arthur shrugs again, a small grin on his face. “So, what did you think?” he asks. “Of dreamshare overall, I mean. Try not to focus on that, uh— incident at the end.” There’s this unmissable thread of excitement in his voice, and I can tell that any answer other than _it’s fucking amazing_ will be unacceptable.

(Kinda like my mom when she asks what you think of her food. Not that I have to lie to her about that. It _is_ fucking amazing.)

Still, even though I know what answer Arthur is expecting, I have to stop and think about it. I’m not really in the habit of telling people what they wanna hear just to make them happy, and while I think the whole create-whatever-you-want thing _is_ kind of cool, it’s also kind of—

“Okay, so… I used to be into porn, right?” I say. “Like, _really_ into it. As in, I’d rather jack off to porn than have sex—”

“Jesus Christ, Jonny,” Arthur says, wrinkling his nose. “No one wants to hear this.”

Eames holds up a finger. “Wrong,” he says, cheerfully.

“ _Ha,_ ” I say to Arthur, who just makes a face at me. “Anyway, this thing?” I wave at the PASIV. “This dream machine shit, with the pretend people—”

“Projections,” Arthur says.

“Whatever. Like, these projections that are really just a part of your own brain, who’ll do anything you want them to? That’s like A-grade porn. That’s like watching A-grade porn and being able to give yourself head at the same time.”

“Now _there’s_ a sales pitch for recreational dreamsharing if I’ve ever heard one,” Eames says, smirking at Arthur.

“Ugh,” Arthur says, looking like he isn’t sure who he’s more annoyed with. He eventually settles on me. “Seriously, you’re shown a piece of technology that literally allows you to create whatever you can imagine, and you equate it to porn?”

“To be fair, I said it was like _really good_ porn. Like really, really good.” I spread my hands when Arthur’s grumpy expression gets worse. “What? It’s cool and everything, but it’s not _real_ , man. It’s like movies. They’re cool while you’re watching them—” I guess I still have trouble getting into movies, a lot of the time, “— but once they’re over, they’re _over_. It doesn’t _do_ anything, it doesn’t change anything in the real world—”

“That’s what you think,” Arthur mutters.

“ _— and it’s obviously dangerous,_ ” I say, louder. “I mean, there’s that psycho bitch, Rebecca, and fuck knows who else in this… ‘community’ of yours.” And bringing up Rebecca and her buddies reminds me of a question I asked before, which Arthur never gave me an answer to. “Arthur.” I look at him carefully. “You’re gonna stop doing this dreamshare stuff now, right? I mean, now that all this— all this _shit_ has happened, you _are_ gonna stop, aren’t you?”

Arthur’s mouth thins. He starts packing up the PASIV in quick, jerky movements. “Are you asking me or telling me?” Before I can answer, he adds, “You don’t understand. You saw the dream, but you still don’t—” He shakes his head, disappointed, almost angry. “I don’t know why I expected you to understand.”

“I understand that’s a no.” I clench my fists. “I understand you’re an asshole who’s totally fine leaving his family in danger and in the fucking dark, all because you don’t want to give up this dream bullshit—”

Arthur slams the lid of the PASIV shut, glaring. “I am _not_ fine with it! And I am not leaving you in danger. Like I said before, I’m going to militarise you.”

“The fuck is that?” I say, while Eames makes a small, doubtful noise that half-startles me. He’d gone quiet so quickly that I forgot he was there.

Arthur gives Eames a narrow look, then answers me, saying, “It’s— think of it as a vaccine. For your mind. Against people who might try to—” he struggles for a moment. “People who might try to do something to you,” is what he eventually settles on saying.

“It’s a vaccine for my mind,” I repeat, flatly. Seriously, there really is only so much shit your brain can take before it goes, _screw this, I’m going on vacation_. “How the fuck is that going to do anything? Is it gonna give me, like, special fucking brain powers, so I can kill people with my mind when they come at me with _guns_?”

Arthur scrubs at his face. “No. It’s a measure to protect you if you’ve been…” he trails off.

“If I’ve been abducted again?” I finish for him. Arthur’s jaw tightens, and I shake my head in disgust. “Jesus, Arthur! Protection _after_ I’ve been kidnapped? What kind of solution is that?” I hold up a finger when he looks like he’s about to interrupt. “And what about everyone else? You gonna do that militarising thing on your parents? My parents? Monica? All of our aunts and uncles and cousins, too?”

“I’ve already pointed these issues out to him,” Eames tells me, studying his nails. “No dice.”

“You, be quiet,” Arthur says to him. “And you,” that’s directed at me, “listen to me. I—”

“No, _you_ listen to me,” I snap. “A bunch of fucking criminals drugged me and tried to kidnap me, just so they could get to you. The only way you can stop that from happening again, to me or to someone else in our family, is to stop doing,” I gesture wildly at the PASIV, “ _this_.”

“That is not an option,” Arthur says immediately.

I pull back, startled.

To be honest, I thought Arthur would agree. Maybe with some bitching and moaning, because he’s Arthur, and he hates being told what to do, but still agreeing. I mean, we’re his _family_. What's that compared to some machine that creates shit that isn’t even real? But apparently Arthur doesn’t see it the same way.

I take another step back. “I guess there’s nothing else to fucking talk about then.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the evening is pretty fucking frosty.

Me and Arthur give each other plenty of space, sticking to opposite ends of the apartment, like two PTA moms in the middle of a bitch fight. It’s stupid as shit, but the alternative is a screaming argument that ends in punches being thrown. And while smashing my fist into Arthur’s face would probably do wonders for my mood, it won’t actually solve anything. And I want shit to be solved. I just don’t feel like talking to Arthur until it is. Man, shit was so much easier when we were kids. Every argument could be solved by one of those dumb little kid fights, you know, the kind where it’s all kicking and shoving and wide, easy-to-dodge punches? And then half an hour later it’d be like, _fight? What’re you talking about, what fight?_

Kids are naturally stoned, I swear to God. Eventually, the silence gets on my nerves, and I end up retreating to my bedroom so I can smoke up. I’ve got three foolproof ways to relax: alcohol, sex, and pot. I don’t feel like the first (thanks a lot, Eames), and I can’t get the second because I don’t have a working car (thanks a lot _again,_ Eames). So pot it is. I’m leaning back against the headboard, about half a dozen hits in, starting to feel loose and easy, when I hear a soft rattling of cups from the living room, and a _thump-creak_ as someone sits down heavily on my couch.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, sounding confused. “I’m not really big on tea, though.”

“Ah, well, it was something of an automatic reaction,” Eames says. “I’ll just drink both then, shall I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

And then there’s silence, broken only by the occasional teacup _clink_ , until Eames says, “It’s appalling, isn’t it? No matter how old you get, or how much you tell yourself it shouldn’t matter, familial rejection and disapproval somehow always manages to cut a little deeper than it has any right to.”

“Analysing me, Eames?”

“You?” Eames says, with exaggerated surprise. “Where did you get the idea I was talking about you? I was talking about myself.”

Arthur’s laugh has barely any humour in it. “Of course you were. Because you’ve always been so open and forthcoming with details of your personal life.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to criticise anyone for being close-mouthed about their personal life,” Eames says, way more mild than I would be if Arthur was giving me the sarcasm treatment, “seeing as you’ve led everyone to believe you have no living relatives.”

“I didn’t lead _everyone_ to believe that,” Arthur says. “Dom’s always known about my family.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“And I wasn’t criticising.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

“I really wasn’t,” Arthur says. “But you’ve never volunteered that kind of information before. It makes me wonder—”

“What my ulterior motive is?”

“Jesus, I knew you were eavesdropping,” Arthur grumbles. “But _yes_ , it does make me wonder what your ulterior motive is, because - oh, don’t give me that look - because we don’t usually have conversations like this. Actually, I don’t think we’ve _ever_ had a conversation like this.”

“Well, I’ve never been privy to your private life before, have I?” Eames says. “Certainly not to such an immediate degree. You can hardly blame me for trying to find out more.” He clears his throat. “Besides, it isn’t as if I told you something new and unexpected. You know all the mundanely unpleasant details of my family history.”

“Yeah, because I ran background checks on you, not because we’ve had dozens of cozy, heartfelt chats.”

The fuck? _Background checks_? Holy shit, Arthur. Personal boundaries, ever heard of them? Eames doesn’t seem freaked out at all, though, because all he does is chuckle a little. Like I really needed another reminder of how not normal they are.

“Can I—” Arthur stops. “I mean, if you’re still in the mood to overshare—” another pause. “You and your family. It’s been a long time. Did you ever…?” he trails off.

“Reconcile?” Eames says, when it becomes obvious Arthur isn’t going to finish that question. “Hardly. Quite the opposite, in fact. We ceased all communication, aside from the annual terse birthday wishes and Christmas greetings, several years ago.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

“We parted ways knowing that our lives would be infinitely better once we didn’t have one another in them,” Eames says. “So yes, I’m fine with it.”

Well, that’s… fucking depressing. I take a long drag from my joint, just in case the sads are contagious.

“I don’t think that’s the case for me,” Arthur says, gloomily. “I mean, they drive me insane most of the time, but I don’t think my life would be better if they were out of it. Whether their lives would be better without me is another thing, but—” he stops again.

“It’s not a universal solution,” Eames says, kindly. “And I don’t think I’m the person you should be saying all this to.”

“It’ll just lead to another argument if I try talking to him now,” Arthur says, still gloomy. “And I am so tired of—” his voice sharpens suddenly. “What’re you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks, and feels, like you’re sticking your hand in my pocket,” Arthur says, and I make an unhappy face at the wall. “What— _Eames_. Give that back. Seriously, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice,” Eames says, “but your cousin lives in a one bedroom flat, which means I’ve been sleeping on this couch for the past few days. Now that you’re here, you can take my place, and I will take your undoubtedly enormous hotel bed. Consider it another bit of recompense.”

“You cannot be—”

“Oh, I’m being serious, believe me,” Eames says. “And if you’re serious about going ahead with this militarisation, then it’s in your best interest for me to be well-rested, isn’t it?” His voice gentles again, even as his footsteps head toward the door. “I’ll be back in the morning. Go talk to your cousin, Arthur.”

My apartment door thunks closed.

Arthur doesn’t come and talk to me straight away. I’m not exactly sure how long it takes, because smoking up always makes time go weird for me, but I’ve burned through more than half my joint before there’s a knock on the door, and Arthur says, “Jonny? You asleep?”

Before I can say no, the doorknob turns, and Arthur pokes his head in.

I squint at him. “What was the point of asking if you were just gonna open the door and look inside anyway?”

Arthur gives me a half-smile, uncertain. “You know what they say. Easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask permission.” He stops, sniffing. “Are you getting _high?_ ”

“No,” I say, “I’m not _getting_ high. I _am_ high.”

Arthur grins, and I grin back before I remember I’m supposed to be pissed off at him. After that, I figure I may as well offer what’s left of the joint to him, because while Arthur may be an asshole who keeps everything to himself, _I_ am a generous motherfucker.

Arthur scoffs - automatically, I guess, because straight after that he shrugs and comes in, saying, “Shit, why not?” and plucks the joint from my fingers. He sits down on the floor, back braced against the side of my bed, and puts the joint to his lips. The first drag he takes is awkward, but the next few are better, no coughing.

I let him smoke in silence for a while before I say, “So you gonna answer my questions properly now?”

Arthur sighs, sending a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “It feels like all I’ve been doing is answering your questions.”

“No,” I say, “what you’ve been doing is showing me your dream machine thing, and getting pissed off when I didn’t think it was cool as you think it is.”

Arthur frowns, looking like he wants to argue, and then his shoulders slump. “Okay. Okay, yeah, you may have a point.” He purses his mouth. “So, what do you want to know?”

It takes me half a minute to get my thoughts into order. That’s pretty much, like, the only problem with pot. Your brain comes up a dumb thought, and - instead of being on the ball and shutting that shit down instantly - it follows that dumb thought, like a car with shitty brakes. Eventually, I decide to start off easy.

“This dreamshare stuff— how’d you get into it?”

“I was selected when I was in the Marines,” Arthur says, without hesitation. So far, so good. “The PASIV was created for the military.”

I scrunch my face up. “Why the hell would the military care about dreams?”

Arthur smiles weirdly. “In dreams, you can practice— well, we practiced killing each other, in preparation for real life combat. Did it over and over, and when you died, you woke up. As you now know.”

Well, that’s just fucked up. It might be normal by military standards, but it’s fucked up by mine.

Arthur seems to misunderstand why I’m making a face, because he says, “Yeah. Not exactly using the PASIV to its full potential, right?”

“And you are?” I say, eyebrow raised.

“To be honest, we still haven’t fully explored everything the PASIV can do yet, or what it can allow us to do. I mean, there was shit that I thought was impossible, a year ago…” Arthur shrugs, but there’s a tiny thread of excitement in his voice. “Turns out they’re possible.”

“Right,” I say. “And what do you do with it? Like, you’re obviously making money off of it.”

Arthur doesn’t answer immediately. He gestures for the lighter, but doesn’t light up after I pass it to him. Just fiddles with it, flicking the wheel over and over. “It’s— um. For the sake of simplicity, let’s say I’m in the business of industrial espionage.”

That takes me a while to process. Not because I don’t understand - I’m not a moron, even if I’m not an Ivy leaguer like some people. I know what industrial espionage is. And I know it’s not the sort of thing you fuck with, because it’s _never_ a good idea to fuck with people who have more money than God.

“What the fuck,” I say. “Why couldn’t you just join the mafia, like a normal Italian, if you wanted to go around stealing shit and shooting people? God. All those fucking brains, and _this_ is what you chose to do with your life?”

“I could say the same thing about you,” Arthur replies, mild.

That brings me up short. “What do you mean?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Jonny, you know what I mean. What’re you doing still working at the bar, and messing around in community college?”

“What?” I scrunch my face up at him. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Okay, that’s fine for now, but what about later? What about when you’re closer to forty than thirty? Or past that? Are you still going to be bartending?”

“So what if I am?”

“And do you really intend to rent forever?” Arthur goes on. “What about buying a house? Or your own apartment, at least? _Think_ , Jonny. Is this really all you want to do for the rest of your life?”

“Jesus.” I sit up, and shove Arthur in the shoulder. “You’re starting to sound like my mom. What does it matter if this is all I want to do for the rest of my life? It's not hurting anybody,” unlike some people’s life choices, “so how about you get the hell off my case?”

I’m gearing up for a fight, but Arthur doesn’t play along. He just shakes his head, saying, “I’m not nagging you, or whatever you think I’m doing. It’s just— you’re my baby cousin. We’re family. That means I’ve gotta look out for you—”

“ _Monica_ is your baby cousin,” I say. “I’m only a few months younger than you. Why don’t you go look out for Monica?”

“I don’t need to, Monica’s had her shit together since she was, like, four.”

“Oh, meaning I don’t have my shit together?”

“It _seemed_ like you were getting it together,” Arthur says, after a second. “Steady girlfriend, finishing your degree, all of that. And now you’re—” he waves his hand. “Back to this. No girlfriend, taking random subjects at community college, still working at the bar, still renting.” He sighs when I scowl at him. “It seems like you’re not really thinking ahead. Or no further ahead than your next paycheck. And that’s _worrying_ , okay?” He shrugs, awkward. “I’m just worried about you. That’s all.”

“Well, don’t be, _fuck_. I actually like my life.” Most of the time, anyway. I flop back against the pillows, arms crossed. “What is it with everyone thinking that having permanent shit is the only way to be happy or whatever?”

Arthur waves a hand. “They were just examples. You don't have to do all of that. All I’m saying is—” he thinks for a moment. “You’re not stupid, Jonny. You can do more than what you’re doing now. Don't you want more from life than this?”

“Like the way you always want more, you mean?” I say, even as part of me says, _yeah, maybe I do._ “You weren’t even satisfied with travelling all over the world, you had to explore fake dream worlds, and get into all kinds of shit to—”

“Alright, _alright._ ” Arthur puts both of his hands up in surrender. “Let’s just— truce, okay? I didn’t come in here to piss you off.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, before saying: “What did you come in here for, then?”

Arthur gives me a lopsided smile. “Believe it or not, I actually came in here to ask if you wanted to go the gym.”

I glance out the window, it’d be pitch fucking black if it wasn’t for the street lights, then back at Arthur, eyebrow raised. “What, right now?”

“These things called twenty-four hour gyms exist,” Arthur replies. “We could’ve gone tonight, except you’re—” he waves at the joint. “And now I’m—” another wave.

“This thing called working out high exists,” I say, trying to imitate Arthur’s fake accent. “Trust me, I know.”

(FYI: Working out high is pretty great. All the shit you don’t really wanna do, but have to do, to look good? Being stoned can actually make that shit fun.)

Arthur snorts. “Of course you know.” He shakes his head, like he hasn’t just been smoking up with me, and adds, “We can go tomorrow afternoon. You still work out in the afternoons?”

I eye him.

See, the thing is, me and Arthur don’t really fight that often. I mean, okay, we had our dumb little kid fights, but aside from those, we’ve mostly had each other’s back. To be completely honest, Arthur’s probably had my back more times than I’ve had his. It’s that sort of shit that makes it really hard to stay mad at him, you know? Even when he _deserves_ to have you mad at him. And Arthur knows it, too, which is why he came in here, rather than trying to wait me out, hoping I’d eventually forget to be pissed at him.

“Man, fuck you, you manipulative fuck,” I grumble, and Arthur grins, because he knows that means yes. I hold up a warning finger before his grin gets to shit-eating size. “Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, nodding. “Of course not.” He’s still grinning, but I don’t think I’m imagining the relief I see in his eyes. I’m pretty sure it matches my own.


	5. Chapter 5

I wake Arthur up at the ass crack of dawn to go to the gym. Just because I can.

(Okay, also because I want to drive home the point that he’s not totally off the hook. But mostly because I can.)

“What the hell, Jonny?” Arthur says, after I yank the blanket off him. “What happened to going this afternoon?”

“Changed my mind,” I say. “You’re not the only one who gets to change his mind.” I grin in triumph when Arthur swears at me and stumbles to his feet.

Ten minutes later, I score another win, when I manage to wrestle the keys to Arthur’s rental away from him. I stroke my hands over the steering wheel, satisfied, as the engine rumbles to life. It doesn’t compare to driving my Chevy, but seeing as it’s been days since I’ve driven anything (thanks a lot, Eames), I’m not gonna be too choosy.

(Seriously, there’s nothing like being in control of a ton of metal and horsepower. I get that not everyone’s a rev head, but anyone who says they don’t feel _anything_ when they get behind the wheel of a good car is a fucking liar.)

“You only won because I’m still half-asleep,” Arthur says, slouched in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better,” I say.

See, now this is better. I mean, okay, maybe we did have to have that talk yesterday, but it’s nice to have some normal, after everything.

It kinda turns out to be the last normal thing of the day, though.

I mean, we get to the gym and work out, and that’s normal enough. But after about an hour, Arthur sets his barbell down, claps me on the shoulder, and asks if I want to spar.

“Come on,” he says, when I raise an eyebrow at him. He bounces on the balls of his feet, shadow boxes, then says casually, “Although it’s alright if you’re—”

“As if I’d be scared of sparring with you,” I say, before he can finish. “And alright, if you’re that desperate to get your ass handed to you again, let’s go.”

I’m not military trained or anything, but Arthur’s been out of the Marines for years, and I’ve got more than a couple pounds of muscle on him. Then Arthur pulls his hoodie off, and it turns out he’s a little more built than I remember. Still not as much as me, but not as scrawny as his fancy ass suits would make you think either.

And, once we’re on the mat, he doesn’t go easy on me. Not that I _want_ him to or anything, but with all the overprotective shit he’s been pulling, I kinda expected him to. Instead, he pushes me: points out what I’m doing wrong, demands that I fix it, then tells me how to fix it. He’s actually not half bad at teaching, something he definitely never used to be.

It all ends with me facedown on the mat, Arthur twisting my arm up behind my back, laughing and telling me to say uncle. I tell him to go screw himself, _then_ say uncle, because Arthur’s got a grip like fucking steel, goddamn.

“Ha,” Arthur says, and climbs off me to do a victory lap around the mat. He laughs his ass off as I tackle him.

 

* * *

 

By the time we get back to my building, Eames is already there, chatting with my landlady as he helps her pick up a bunch of groceries scattered across the ground.

“—so very sorry, I have no idea how I always end up doing this,” he’s saying, as we walk up. “Yet another reason I shouldn’t be allowed outside without proper supervision.”

Now I’m a bartender, alright? I’ve listened to plenty of English guys play up their accent. But Eames is doing something else, talking with this slightly dopey, helpless voice, with a smile to match.

“It’s alright,” my landlady says, smiling all gooey-like at him. “Really, it is.”

And, man, I’ve lived here for five years, and I think that’s the first time I’ve seen her smile, never mind smile like that. She’s not a raging bitch or anything, but I’ve gotten my share of raised eyebrows from her (usually when she sees a girl leaving my place the morning after). I’m pretty sure if I knocked all her groceries flying, she wouldn’t be beaming and telling me everything’s okay, _really_.

She does blink, startled, when she sees me and Arthur, though. Then Eames hands her the last of her groceries, and she takes them, smiling all over again.

“Seriously, Eames?” Arthur says, when we’re a whole floor away. “There’s no way that could’ve been a challenge.”

Eames sniffs. “All complex skills require a strong foundation. You wouldn’t look askance at a marksman for practicing on static targets, would you?”

“I would if he was standing two feet away from the targets,” Arthur says dryly. “Another minute of that, and she probably would’ve let you into Jonny’s apartment and offered to wait inside with you.”

“Whoa, hang on.” I grab Eames by the elbow. “You were trying to con your way inside? Are you for real?”

Eames raises his eyebrows. “Well, you were so appalled about your being lock picked, I thought you’d appreciate me using a different method,” he says, sounding so reasonable that - just for a second - I seriously can't tell if he's fucking with me or not.

“There are so many things wrong with you, you know that?” I say, unlocking my door like a _normal_ person.

“Duly noted,” Eames says, cheerful.

The second we’re inside, it’s like a switch gets flipped in Arthur’s brain. He pulls the PASIV out of the hall closet and starts setting up, all the easiness he had at the gym vanishing. He orders Eames around - telling him to grab this and sterilise that - but goes all mysterious each time I ask what militarisation actually _is_.

(So much for those teaching skills. Maybe he's only good at it when he's got something physical to work with.)

It’s Eames who finally explains it to me, while Arthur grumbles and gripes that he’s oversimplifying it all.

“You’re welcome to take over at any time,” Eames tells him, before continuing: “Ideally, once you’re aware you’re dreaming, you would shoot yourself out, or throw yourself off a building, or— well, whatever method you find least disagreeable.”

“None of them sound least disagreeable,” I say. “How can killing myself be least disagreeable? And what if—” I frown. “What if it turns out I’m not dreaming?”

Eames nods solemnly. “That would be quite the dilemma. But, on the bright side, it wouldn’t last for very long.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s really helpful, thanks.”

“If you _do_ manage to kick yourself out,” Arthur says, no longer able to stop himself from butting in, “your best— actually, no, your _only_ course of action should be to punch the lookout, run like hell, and call me immediately.”

And that makes me worry all over again about the rest of our family.

“Everyone else in our family surrounds themselves with people,” Arthur says, when I pull him aside and ask about it. “You’re a loner, comparatively. That makes you the easiest target, by far.”

“Jesus, if I’m a loner, what does that make you?” I say. “One of those hermit monk guys living in a mountain cave?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’m not a hermit.”

“Comparatively, you are,” I say, copying his fake accent.

“Okay, fine.” Arthur glances across the room at Eames. “But I’m not a celibate hermit monk, at least.”

“I know what you’re doing,” I grumble, even as I let go of his arm.

Arthur smirks and goes over to Eames, asking him if he has any ideas for this particular militarisation.

“I thought you’d have this planned down to the minute,” Eames says, surprised. “With allotted times for light snacks and bathroom breaks, even.”

“I do,” Arthur says. “But there’s room for adjustment. This is a unique case, in terms of, uh— subject and timeframe. We’re probably gonna have to resort to some unorthodox methods, so—”

“It’s a prime opportunity to test out a few theories along the way,” Eames finishes, and they nerd out then, throwing around ideas and terms faster than I can follow.

I listen for half a minute, then roll my eyes and leave them to it.

When I come back fifteen minutes later, they’re still at it, although there are several sheets of paper spread over my living room table now. Each one is covered in a combination of Arthur’s all-caps writing and what has to be Eames’, this scrawl that changes from print to cursive then back again in one sentence.

“This what gets you guys going?” I gesture back and forth between them. “Being all nerdy and shit?”

Eames twists to look at me. “If you’re truly curious about what gets us going—”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I’m good.”

“Well, I think we’ve covered everything,” Arthur says, another smirk tugging at his mouth. He gathers the notes up. “Shall we get started?”

 

* * *

 

If anyone ever asks me to describe what being militarised is like, in ten words or less, I’ll tell them this: it’s boring as shit, except when it’s exhausting or terrifying.

Like, imagine you’re cramming for an exam (not that I ever did), but you’re doing it using someone else’s notes. And those notes are sometimes just pages of Magic Eye and sudoku shit instead of being, y’know, _actual notes_. And, every now and then, while you’re doing that, your cousin will show up, wait for you to look the other way, and then shoot you in the back of the head.

(Okay, there’s more to it than that, but that’s what being militarised _feels_ like.)

Arthur’s shot me out of the dream maybe a dozen times - he’s only let the timer run down a couple times - but I’m still not recognising the dreams as dreams.

“Maybe I would if you just waited a little longer, instead of shooting me,” I say. Snap, really, because this is reminding me of being back in school with Arthur, and not in a fun way.

“You don’t have to recognise it’s a dream, _your_ _subconscious_ has to,” Arthur replies, more confused than annoyed. He pauses when Eames, who’s been leafing through their notes, hands him a page. “Maybe. If I— okay, yeah, that might work.”

Neither of them bother to explain what ‘that’ is to me. Maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe they _do_ explain, and I don’t remember, because after that it’s multiple rounds of sleep, dream, get shot awake again - all of it done so quickly that there’s always a long moment where I’m not sure if I’m in a dream or not.

It’s at one of those moments that I find myself standing in a desert. Maybe. Kind of. I mean, I _say_ it’s a desert, but only because I don’t think there’s a word for ‘some sandy rainbow land that God created when he was high on magic mushrooms’.

Arthur is with me, and he grips my shoulder, saying, “This is a dream, Jonny. Remember? We came down less than a minute ago.”

I look around again. Not because I doubt him, just— fuck, how did I not realise this was a dream _right away_?

“Are you listening to me?” Arthur squeezes my shoulder. “You’re dreaming.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, huffing. “But doesn’t it defeat the whole point of this militarisation thing, you telling me it’s a dream?”

“It would,” Arthur says, “if I was actually Arthur.”

That makes me look at him. Like, _really_ look at him. He’s dressed in a wrinkle-free, pale grey suit, and there’s not a drop of sweat on him, despite the fact it’s hot as balls.

“You’re my projection of Arthur,” I say. “My— what was it? Subconscious security?”

“Duh,” the projection says, and I automatically give it the finger.

“Where’s the real Arthur then?”

The projection shrugs. “No idea. But my best guess would be somewhere over there.” He jerks his chin at the horizon, which is a line of hills topped with weird, cartoonish trees.

“Fuck, that’s far,” I say, squinting.

My projection of Arthur says nothing. When I look back, there’s nothing there but thin air (and desert rainbow everything else).

“Goddamn it,” I say, and start walking.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, I find Arthur sitting in the shade of one of those weird-ass trees. Up close, it looks even weirder, like the lovechild of a tree and a mushroom.

Arthur crosses his arms, frowning, as I get close. “Your subconscious is supposed to find me, not you.”

“Yeah, well, my subconscious was a projection of you that pointed me this way, then fucked off. So I guess my subconscious thinks you’re an unhelpful asshole.” I look around, ignoring Arthur’s offended _hey._ “What’s with this place? Haven’t you ever seen a real desert before? Or were you just high as shit when you first thought it up?”

“Of course I’ve seen a real desert.” Arthur blinks. “This _is_ a real desert.”

I look around again. “Bullshit.”

“No, really,” Arthur says, starting to smile. “This level is based on Socotra. I went there a couple years ago.”

“Right, because that totally sounds like a real place.”

“It’s an island,” Arthur says. “Part of Yemen.” And sure, _that_ totally sounds like a real place, too. Arthur’s smile widens at my expression. “I’m seriously not bullshitting you. I’m not Eames.”

I raise my eyebrows, because between the two of them, Arthur’s done a lot more straight up lying than Eames has.

“There are some crazy things out in the world, Jonny,” Arthur says. “Out in nature, I mean. You have no idea. It’s not all—” He gets to his feet abruptly. “You know what? Come with me.”

I get up and follow him down the hill. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

And what I see is— well, I guess ‘everything’ would be the easiest way to describe it. Or maybe ‘everywhere’, like a Nature’s Greatest Hits tour of every place Arthur has ever visited.

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth place he shows me (the fumeroles of Iceland, Arthur says), it becomes pretty obvious Arthur has a thing for extremes. It’s all soaringly high mountaintops, or near-pitch black caves, or places with filled with bright, clashing colours, intense enough to make my eyeballs ache.

Arthur’s sporting that little boy grin again, enjoying playing tour guide. And it’s— I mean, the stuff he’s seen is cool. Really. But there’s this weird tightness in my chest, getting tighter by the second, and I can’t match his enthusiasm at all. Seeing everything at once like this, it seems too crazy to be real.

“What if—” I think for a second. “You ever think maybe you’re just remembering shit as looking better than it actually is?”

“No,” Arthur says. “My builds have never had that issue. I don’t have the imagination for it, some people might say.” There’s a sour twist to his smile that I don’t get. “What you see here is what you’d get in reality, for better or worse.”

“Right,” I say, lamely.

“Oh, hey.” Arthur takes me by the arm. “I just thought of another place you might like. It’s a little closer to home.”

 

* * *

 

 _Where are we_ this _time?_ I start to ask.

Except my voice dies away and my stomach drops down into my shoes, because we’re standing less than a foot away from the edge of a cliff. And it’s not just any cliff, I realise, as I stumble back. It’s the edge of the _Grand Canyon_.

I’ve seen it on TV, of course. I’ve seen it on fuck-off huge flat screens even, but they don’t come close to showing the true fucking size of this place. You could literally fit all of Hoboken in here. Hell, you could fit all of New York City in here and still have room to spare.

I mean, do you get how fucking weird that is? To think that almost everything I know can fit into one giant hole in the ground?

And it’s like— okay, all those other places Arthur showed me? They might as well have been on Mars, they felt that far away. But this, here? I could get to the real Grand Canyon in less than a day. I could _drive_ to it, if I really wanted to.

I’ve just never thought about it before.

Arthur gives me a cheerful nudge while all that is running through my head. “Want to check out Yellowstone? Or we can get off the tourist track, if you want, and—”

“Actually,” I say, a little too loud, “I think what I want is a break.” I walk off without waiting for him to reply.

Arthur doesn’t come after me. But, after five or so minutes of walking, there’s the snap of gum from behind me, and someone says, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

I know that voice. It doesn’t exactly make me want to turn around, but I’m not a pussy, so I do.

Barbara is standing a few feet away, hands on her hips, looking exactly the same as the last time I saw her. She’s even got the same expression on her face: eyes narrowed, mouth tight with— I don’t know. Disgust, or disappointment, or some other emotion starting with _dis_.

 _She’s not real,_ I remind myself. There’s no reason for me to feel like I’m walking on eggshells or something as I say, “I don’t know, shouldn’t I be asking you that? This is my dream, after all.”

“Oh, I bet this is a dream come true for you.” Barbara tosses her hair over her shoulder. “What was your plan here? I tell you to never call me again, so you decide to follow me instead?”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s— you really think that’s what’s happening here?”

“What else am I supposed to think? This place is practically on the other side of the side of the country.” Barbara flicks her fingers. “You expect me to believe it’s a coincidence you’re here at the same time as me?”

“No, it’s not a coincidence, but—”

“See how much easier it is when you don’t lie?” Barbara shakes her head with a condescending little smile. “Not that it matters. It’s too late, sweetie. You—” Her expression changes suddenly, as she looks past me. “Who’s this?”

‘This’ is Arthur, of course, walking up to us with his face pulled into a massive frown.

“Is this your twin?” Barbara asks me, while her expression says, _oh look, another thing you never told me about_. “The good twin?”

“This is my cousin, Arthur,” I say. And even though she’s only a projection, it feels great to add, “He’s gay and a criminal,” just to watch her eyes widen.

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur says, dryly.

Barbara gets over her surprise after a second or two. “A criminal, huh?” She eyes Arthur up and down, taking in his expensive suit and his haircut. “You any good at it?”

“Very,” Arthur says. He’s edging away, the way he used to as a teenager, when girls got too interested in him. It should be funny seeing him do it as a grown ass man, but I can’t find it in me to laugh right now.

“Well, that’s something, at least,” Barbara says, and I stare at her in disbelief. “If you’re gonna be a criminal, you may as well be a successful one.” She studies her nails. “I mean, there are worse things you could be. Like selfish and immature.”

“Oh, that is rich,” I say, as a throbbing starts up in my temples. “That is real rich, you accusing anyone of being selfish. I wasn’t the one who kept making all these demands while pretending I wasn’t making any. I wasn’t the one who— _what?_ ” I snap, when Arthur grabs my elbow.

“She’s not real,” he says quietly.

I pull my arm away. “I know that—”

“Oh, I’m real,” Barbara says. “Too real for you to handle, apparently, because you decided you’d prefer to lose the best thing that ever happened to you rather than man up and make changes to your life.”

“This is amazing,” I say, to no one in particular. Barbara isn’t _really_ listening, and Arthur has backed away, acting like he’s too interested in the dream to notice us. I hope he’s trying to create an earthquake or something. Something that’ll kill me, get me away from here as soon as possible. “Just fucking amazing.”

“Do you want to know what’s really amazing?” Barbara asks. “What’s amazing is how much effort you put into not doing anything. You don’t want a real job, you don’t want to get married, you don’t want a family. You don’t even have the balls to move away, or go anywhere, or do anything. Your biggest goal in life is to stay a little boy, and that’s pathetic. It’s so pathetic I actually feel sorry for you, you know that?”

I twist away from her, the throbbing in my head suddenly more like a pounding.

“ _Arthur,_ ” I call out. “Arthur!” He turns to me reluctantly. “Will you just fucking kick me out already?”

I never thought I’d say this, but it’s a goddamn relief to get shot.

 

* * *

 

Arthur looks at me for a long moment after we wake up, then announces we’re going to have an early lunch.

I stay pretty quiet throughout it, which gets me plenty of curious looks from Eames. He doesn’t get a chance to poke at me, though, because Arthur takes up his attention, talking about Vegas, going over hotels and flights and transfers. Eames goes into full rich snob mode about it, just like I suspected he would.

“I like this one,” Eames declares, showing Arthur a hotel listing on his phone.

“A six bedroom suite?” Arthur snorts. “What would we do with six bedrooms? Hell, what would we do with two?”

“We could move to a new bedroom each night,” Eames says. “Or invite five other people to join us, if we were so inclined.”

“No,” Arthur says firmly. “I’m not footing the bill for anyone else.” He shakes his fork at Eames. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Picking something outrageous to make your other choices seem reasonable only works with people who _haven’t_ known you for years.”

Eames heaves a huge sigh. “Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.”

They eventually settle on a suite at the Bellagio. When Arthur gets up to make a phone call, though, Eames slides his laptop over, and starts changing the booking.

“He’s gonna notice sooner or later,” I say.

“Perhaps,” Eames says, winking. “But there’s always the possibility he won’t.”

I give him a look, but don’t say anything when Arthur returns. Either Arthur is used to Eames pulling this shit and doesn’t mind, or he does mind and they can argue about it later. Preferably somewhere that’s not my living room.

“So,” Arthur says, all business again, “the issue - as far as I can tell - is that while Jonny’s subconscious now recognises he’s dreaming, it’s not mobilising to attack. Not since that first time. I changed the landscape multiple times over, and there was no reaction. I even walked right up to one of his projections.” He shrugs. “Still nothing.”

“Interesting,” Eames says. “Do you think the issue is the approach?”

“No, I think the issue is me,” Arthur replies. “Which is why—”

“You want me to be the dreamer,” Eames finishes. “See if Jon’s subconscious reacts then.”

“Exactly.”

After Eames goes down into the dream on his own, setting up, Arthur turns to me and says, “You know, I didn’t explain it properly, when I said she wasn’t real.”

“Sure you did.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Your subconscious fills the dream with people you know and people you’ve seen. I remember that.”

“Yeah, but—” Arthur rubs his jaw, sighing. “The thing you have to keep in mind about projections is, the way they behave isn’t always a reflection of the real person. It can be confusing, I know,” he adds, when I give him a doubtful look. “I used to think because my dream levels were accurate, my projections must’ve been, too.” He smiles crookedly. “That was partly why it pissed me off so much, you know? When you compared dreaming to porn.”

I frown. “Are you saying you fucked—”

“No,” Arthur says quickly. “I mean, there are people who do that, but I’ve never been one of them.”

I nod, relieved.

“I would just— talk to my projections, sometimes,” Arthur says. “Like practice runs, you know? The real conversations never worked out the way I rehearsed, though.”

I tilt my head. “What kind of people did you talk to?”

“Oh, you know. People.” Arthur clears his throat a couple times. “Exes, mostly.”

We just _look_ at each other for a while then: understanding, but also kind of wishing we didn’t.

“Are projections always wrong, though?” I say finally. “I mean, what about your projection of me? Or our family? Aren’t those accurate?”

“They’re…” Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “It’s actually been a while since I’ve seen them. I always suppress them when I’m working. I never wanted people to see them and wonder at the resemblance, you know?”

“Right,” I say slowly. “Because you were pretending to be a sad orphan and shit.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t pretending. People assumed things, and I just… let them.”

“Yeah, that’s still pretending,” I say. “It’s just pretending with less effort. And what about Eames, then?”

“What about him?” Arthur asks, wary, and it’s my turn to roll my eyes.

“What’s your projection of Eames like, dumbass?”

Arthur blinks. “Like Eames, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Arthur sighs. “He’s… you know. Intelligent. Witty. Charming.” He rubs his mouth, half-smiling. “Kind of sleazy, kind of a dick sometimes.”

I almost tell him again that that’s a fucked up way to talk about his boyfriend, except Bobby was right. Arthur’s type _is_ classy rough. ‘Kind of sleazy, kind of a dick’ is probably a plus in his books.

“Although Eames is— he’s turned out to be a lot warmer than my projection,” Arthur adds awkwardly. “In some ways.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” Arthur chews on his lip. “Yeah, of course it is.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay,” I say. “Now you guys are just fucking with me.”

We’re in a soap bubble. A giant-ass one, bigger than my apartment, but still. A soap bubble. We’re hovering just above the floor of a— sea? A lake? I don’t know. It’s too deep to be a lake, but it’s also way too bright to be the bottom of the sea. The sunlight cuts through the water, creating patterns that appear and disappear. It’s like a laser show, but the light is richer, warmer than any clubbing lights I’ve ever seen. It feels the way some church songs sound, but— y’know. Not boring.

“There’s no way something like this exists in the real world,” I say, gesturing at the bubble.

Eames looks around with mild surprise, like he didn’t build the whole dream. “Of course it doesn’t. But why does it need to?”

“Okay, but how are my projections going to find you?” A group of tiny, glittering fish swim overhead, each one barely bigger than my thumbnail. “Are they gonna be, like, mermaids and shit?”

“You know, I’ve no idea,” Eames says. “I mostly picked this design because you looked like you could do with a break from Arthur’s relentless training schedule.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “Yeah, I did, actually.” I eye him, curious. “Thanks.”

Eames accepts the thanks with a nod, then kicks back on the floor of the bubble, his arms tucked behind his head. I sit down, too, watching the light show and letting my mind drift like seaweed.

I’m only jolted out of it when Eames says, slow and lazy: “Penny for your thoughts?”

I look at him, but Eames’ eyes aren’t even open. He looks like a big, dozy panda or something, napping in the sun, barely paying attention. So I blurt the first thing that comes to mind: “You ever seen _The Little Mermaid?_ ”

Eames’ eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “I’ve never had the pleasure, no.”

“Yeah, me neither, until a year ago.” I turn my head to watch a pinkish-purple jellyfish drift past aimlessly. “Barbara’s niece was fucking obsessed with it, though. I went from, like, having never seen it to seeing it three times in one month.”

“Barbara?”

“Oh.” I gesture vaguely. “She’s my— you know. My ex. Before Esther.” My mouth purses. “She showed up in the dream. The last one, I mean.”

“Hm.” Eames opens his eyes a fraction, still looking half-asleep. “So how _did_ she react to Arthur? Specifically. Aside from failing to kill him or otherwise inflict harm upon his person.”

“‘Inflict harm upon his person’,” I say, in Eames’ accent. “Seriously, man, you sound like something out of Masterpiece Theatre.” I scratch my nose. “And— I dunno. She liked him, I guess.”

“And your other projections,” Eames says. “They reacted the same way?”

I think for a while. “No. I mean, they didn’t attack him either, but— it was more like they didn’t care, even when Arthur put a gun to my head.”

“Mm, implicit trust.” Eames’ eyes slip shut again. “Subconsciously, you feel Arthur would never truly hurt you.”

Well, that makes sense. Arthur’s a jerk sometimes, and shady as hell, but we’re family.

“So why was Bar— why’d my projection of Barbara act differently, then?”

“Oh, there could be any number of reasons,” Eames replies. “But it most likely depends on what she meant - or still means - to you.”

“She doesn’t mean anything to me anymore,” I say quickly. Too quickly, really, but Eames doesn’t call me out on it.

“Alright, well, were you in love with her?”

I let out a hard breath. “Maybe? No? God, I don’t know. I don’t even think I know what love is, sometimes. It’s like—” I rub my forehead, like I can massage the words right out of my brain. “Okay, so, the way it was always explained to me was, when a man loves a woman—” I pause. “Or, uh, when a man loves another man or whoever—”

“Your attempt at political correctness has been noted,” Eames says. He snickers when I shove at his arm. “Anyway, go on. When one individual loves another individual…”

I roll my eyes, a smile pulling at my mouth, despite everything. I guess I can sort of see why Arthur finds Eames charming. Sort of. “You know how people say if you really love someone you’ll do anything for them?”

“So the narrative goes, yes.”

“Well, I tried to do that. And I thought maybe, since I was trying, that meant I loved her.” I shrug and look down at my hands. “I guess it just meant I was trying to love her.”

“Mm,” is all Eames says. Then: “What sort of future did you see with her?”

Man, he really sounds like Esther right now. Maybe that’s why I keep talking. “I saw— you know, the usual. I figured we’d get engaged, get married, buy a house, have kids.”

“And is that what you wanted?”

 _What’s that got to do with it?_ I almost say. Except I can already imagine what he - and Esther - would say: it has everything to do with it.

“No,” I say finally, sighing. “But I thought maybe I’d be happy once it was done, like everyone said. I mean, it’s supposed to be the good life, right? I thought that’s just what life _is_ , it’s what you do when you grow up, it’s how you become a man, and—” I stop.

“Ah,” Eames says. “And there it is.” He opens his eyes, but looks up at the water instead of at me. “Something that can easily be forgotten or overlooked,” he says, “even by people with extensive dreamshare experience, is that every aspect of the dream - including projections - is imbued with one’s subconscious.”

I stare at him. It feels like I’m standing at the edge of the canyon again, look out while this new, uncomfortable awareness creeps up on me. “You’re saying all that stuff she said was actually coming from me?” I try to laugh it off, but it comes out as a cough, and a weak-ass cough at that. “You think that’s what I think about myself?”

“Our subconscious thoughts aren’t necessarily the truest or most accurate,” Eames replies. “They’re simply our rawest thoughts.”

I nod lamely, then clear my throat and look around, but there’s nowhere to go, obviously. Not unless I want to pop the bubble and drown us both. So I go for the next best thing.

“What about you and Arthur?” I say.

“What of us?” Eames says, politely dumb.

“Like, all that stuff you asked me about Barbara.” I wave my hand. “Well, what about you? Do you love him? What sort of future do you see for you two?”

“They’re rather complicated questions to answer all at once,” Eames says, after a pause. “There’s a reason I asked them one by one. And with some warm up, too.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” I huff. “First question, then: you guys met in the military, right? Is that when you got together?”

“There was that minor issue of don’t ask, don’t tell,” Eames says. “So, no. We, ah— we encountered one another on a job, and kept in touch afterwards. One thing led to another—”

“One thing led to what thing?”

Eames looks sidelong at me. “You’re awfully curious all of a sudden, for a man who climbs the walls at the merest hint of homoeroticism.”

“Yeah, and you’re awfully evasive all of a sudden,” I shoot back.

“Now that’s not true, I’m always evasive.” Eames settles back, eyes starting to slip shut again.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I jab him hard in the side. “You’re not avoiding this by being cute and playing with words. I’m not Arthur, you can’t distract me like that. If you guys are serious, I have to make sure you’re treating him right.”

“So the protectiveness runs both ways,” Eames says, under his breath.

We go back and forth like that, Eames giving short, vague answers to my questions, then following them up with these long, rambling stories, full of boring details I never even asked for.

But when Eames says, “—Arthur was rather keen to get back because he’d arranged a tennis match with—”

I sit up, confused. “What? Arthur fucking hates tennis. I’ve got the scar under my chin to prove it.” I tilt my head and point, so Eames can see. “Happened when we were thirteen. Arthur had this fucking meltdown on the tennis court, right? He threw his racket at the ground, and it bounced and got me right here. I had to get stitches, man.”

Arthur hated tennis even more after that. And I can guarantee his feelings haven’t changed, because he still scowls whenever he sees Wimbledon or whatever on TV.

I narrow my eyes at Eames. “Why’re you trying to bullshit me?”

Eames holds my gaze for a full five seconds, then says, “Ugh,” and lets his head drop back. “Honestly? Because once I informed your cousin of your— amusing misconception, let’s say, he insisted - quite strongly - that I play along. Apparently you have antiquated ideas about relationships.”

“How the hell do I have—” I stop. “Wait. So what kind of relationship do you guys actually have then?”

Eames waves his hand airily. “We are longstanding colleagues who, from time to time, when we are both available and in the same geographical vicinity, will—”

“You’re fuck buddies,” I cut in.

“I was going to put it in far less crude terms,” Eames says, “but yes, essentially.”

“So you’re not in love with Arthur,” I say, while a part of my brain keeps thinking: _antiquated?_ “You’re not even in a relationship with him.” There’s a pressure in my chest, growing stronger as I process each fact, and when Eames shrugs and nods like it’s no big deal, I snap: “Well, _why the hell not?_ ”

Eames pulls back, startled. “Why not what?”

“Why not be in a relationship with Arthur, huh? What’s wrong with him?” I lean forward. “He’s a great fucking catch, man. Do you know how many of the Italian moms around here still want him to marry their daughters? _All_ of them.”

“Well,” Eames says, “seeing as I’m not a middle-aged Italian woman shopping for a husband for my daughter, my criteria differs.”

I snort. “What criteria could you have that Arthur doesn’t meet?” I start ticking points off my fingers. “He’s hot, obviously. If he was a chick, he’d be a dime.”

“A…?”

“A dime,” I say impatiently. “You know, ten out of ten. He’s smart, he’s got money, he’s a good dresser, he’s in the same ‘line of work’ as you.” I point at Eames. “You’re a shady-ass thief with a gambling problem and, like, compulsive lockpicking issues. You could do way worse than having Arthur as a boyfriend, you know.”

“Oh, that’s a ringing endorsement.” Eames’ forehead wrinkles. “From someone who’s related several anecdotes about how dysfunctional and emotionally stunted he is, no less.”

“Yeah?” I shrug. “I’ve known him my whole life, I get to complain about him. And so what if he’s a little messed up? Everybody’s fucked up in some way. Relationships are just about finding the kind of fucked up that works with yours.”

Eames’ eyebrows pull into a thoughtful frown. “That is a surprising amount of wisdom, coming from you,” he says eventually.

I squint at him. “What? I’ve got wisdom coming out my ass, man. Just because I can’t do projection dream interpretation or whatever, it doesn’t mean I haven’t got a clue.”

Eames huffs out a dry little laugh. “Indeed.”

 

* * *

 

“Well?” Arthur demands, when we’re fully awake.

“Nothing happened.” Eames shrugs. “You’re right, he has a surprisingly docile subconscious.”

“Hey,” I say. “I’ve already told you guys, don’t talk about me like I’m not here. And yeah, maybe nothing happened with my projections, but I found out something interesting.” I poke Arthur hard in the shoulder. “What’s with you lying about Eames being your boyfriend? Or thinking I have ‘antiquated ideas’ about relationships?”

Arthur’s mouth drops open. He shoots an accusing, disbelieving look at Eames, who raises his hands.

“It just came out,” Eames says. “You know how dreams are, the way things bleed through.”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur says. “It’s not like you’re a highly trained operative with almost a decade of experience or something.” He glares for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders relaxing. “On the bright side, I guess that’s one less thing for me to worry about.” His accent edges closer to his normal one without him seeming to notice.

“You know how you could’ve avoided the worry?” I poke him in the shoulder again. “By not fucking lying in the first place.”

“Technically,” Arthur says, “I never said Eames was my boyfriend. You assumed—”

“And you let me,” I finish. “Yeah, you do that a lot.”

“He does,” Eames says, nodding.

“Also, the fact you assumed that,” Arthur says, “basically proves my point about you having antiquated ideas.” He turns back to the PASIV, already moving to load up another dose. But I’ve pretty much had it with being ordered around, micromanaged, and lied to, so like hell he’s getting the last word.

“You know,” I say, crossing my arms, “you better not think that this whole militarisation thing makes us even. Like, you’re making me work, even while I’m sleeping.”

Arthur stops. “Militarisation, me telling you the truth about what I do, and dinner tomorrow. That’s what we agreed on.”

“No, technically—” I draw the word out, enjoying it, “—militarisation was your idea, and I said the other stuff was the bare minimum of what you owed me.”

There’s a sound like a snort from Eames, but when me and Arthur look at him, he’s gazing innocently out the window.

Arthur eyes me warily. “Well, what else could you want?”

“There’s my car, for one,” I say. “The wiring’s completely fucked, the steering column needs a new cover, and the steering lock’s probably broken, too. Fixing that shit costs money, man.”

“ _Eames_ hotwired your car,” Arthur says, sputtering. “You should be making him pay for it!”

Eames straightens up. “Hang on—”

“Eames hotwired my car to save my life after you put it in danger,” I say. “Also, you told him to follow me. So, really, you’re the one responsible.”

“Yes, exactly.” Eames says, nodding quickly. He shrugs at Arthur. “The man’s logic is sound.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Arthur scrubs at his face, and takes a deep breath. “Alright, fine _._ I will pay for your car. Now can we _please_ get back to this militarisation?”

“Sure,” I say, smug. I sit back, and hold my fist out to Eames. “Thanks for the assist, bro.”

Eames stares at it, before giving me the lightest, most careful fist bump ever. “Anything to get out of footing the bill, really.”

“God.” Arthur looks back and forth between us. “It’s like I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.”

 

* * *

 

We go down again. And again. And - yeah, you guessed it - again.

I always know I’m dreaming now, either because something weird clues me in, or the Arthur projection shows up and tells me. So there’s that. But the rest of my projections don’t seem to want to get with the program.

As each attempt fails, Eames’ bored sighs get longer and louder, and Arthur’s frustrated scowls get worse. And me? I’m frustrated _and_ bored.

On the sixty-millionth (or whatever) dream, however, the projections around me get edgy. There’s a weird, unfriendly vibe to the air, like a late Friday night at the bar, when you start refusing people service.

I walk away from them because - like Arthur keeps telling me - my subconscious is supposed to do the work. I pass a bunch of buildings and endless doors, but I don’t pay them any attention until a thump and a groan behind one of them makes me stop.

Now, I’ve done the go-the-other-way thing a bunch of times now, and I’ve never heard anything like that before. And I’m bored, okay? Bored enough that I don’t think. I just push the door open, and end up greeted by the sight (and sound) of Eames bent over a table, his pants around his ankles, groaning loudly as he gets plowed by an equally loud Arth— no, by my projection of Arthur.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_.” I slap my hand over my eyes and back out of the door, but not before Eames straightens up and turns in surprise, and I get a horrifying eyeful of his boner. He swears, and maybe my projection does, but not as loud as me. “Holy fuck, _my eyes_. I’ve gone blind, _shit_ —”

“No, you haven’t, you overdramatic dill,” Eames says, breathless. “You have your hand over your eyes—”

“ _Because you haven’t got any fucking pants on,_ ” I say, at the top of my lungs. “What the fuck, bro. What the fuck—”

“Calm down—”

“You calm down!” I say wildly, hand still over my eyes. “What’s the subconscious symbolism of this, huh?” Is this your idea of working your issues out? Seriously, what the f—”

Something— no, someone slams into my side, making me stagger, and I open my eyes to see my projections swarming into the room. They just keep coming, until the room is thick with bodies, and Eames disappears from view.

There’s the deafening crack of a gunshot, and, a few seconds later, the dream falls apart.

 

* * *

 

“My brain, Arthur,” I say. “ _My brain_. He was having sex in my brain. With you!”

“Yeah, I know.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’ve said that like five times now.”

“Because you don’t seem to get how fucked up it is!” I say. “He was having—”

“I _know,_ ” Arthur groans, while Eames pipes up, adding, “It was a projection of Arthur. Technically.”

“ _My_ projection of Arthur,” I say, rounding on him. “ _My_ projection, _my_ subconscious, which means you were really having sex with—” Fuck, I can’t even finish that sentence.

“Did you really have to?” Arthur asks him tiredly.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Eames replies. I practically choke on my disbelief, but Arthur just raises an eyebrow. “You may have lost count topside, but I’ve run through over a dozen dreams now, and the mobilisation of his subconscious has been… sluggish at best.”

“Hey,” I say. It’s not my fault, it’s not like I can control my subconscious.

“But do you know what happened when he caught me and that projection _in flagrante delicto_?” Eames says. “The other projections converged like _that._ ” He snaps his fingers.

“You’re saying you planned it? As a way to provoke his subconscious?” Arthur’s voice wobbles toward the end, like he’s trying not to laugh. “The fact that it relieved your boredom - among other things - was totally incidental?”

Eames lifts his chin. “Precisely.” He gives me a gracious look. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Screw you,” I say, and Arthur does snort out a laugh then.

“In a way, part of you did,” he says, and _ugh_.

“Fucking screw you both.” I give them two middle fingers to underline it. “I’m probably gonna be traumatised for life from this, and—” I stop as a thought hits me. “Oh _fuck—_ am I gonna have projections of you two fucking in my subconscious forever?”

“Probably, if you don’t stop fixating on it,” Arthur says.

“How am I supposed to stop fixating on it?” I demand. “ _I saw Eames’ dick._ ”

Eames nods. “It is a memorable sight, if I may say so myself. Count yourself fortunate. It is a privilege that few—” he pauses. “Well, it’s a privilege that a fair number of people have experienced, but you are nevertheless very fortunate.”

One corner of Arthur’s mouth curls up. “You do love whipping it out at the slightest opportunity.”

“And have you ever objected?” Eames replies. “No, you have not.”

Arthur grins.

“Eurgh,” I say.

Eames tuts. “There’s no need to be like that. It needn’t be some terrible trauma. Think of the positives.”

“ _What_ positives?”

Eames pauses to think. “Well, should you ever feel the desire to experiment—” he waggles his eyebrows, and I consider throwing something at him, “—a lasciviously inclined projection of me will come in handy.” He straightens up. “In fact, I hereby give full consent, on behalf of my projection, for any lewd acts that you may wish to commit with or upon its person.”

“I don’t want to commit any lewd acts with it,” I say loudly, over another snort of laughter from Arthur, “because, for the last time, _I’m not gay._ ”

“Ah, well,” Eames says delicately, “given the favourable reaction of your projection—”

I cut him off with a sharp wave. “Shut up, it just reacted that way because that’s how Arthur would react.”

“How do you know that’s how I’d react?” Arthur says, at the same time Eames says, “As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen Arthur react quite that way.”

Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I’m being double teamed by them about this, of all things.

(...that was a fucking terrible choice of words, forget I said that.)

“I give up,” I say. “Seriously, you’re all, ‘oh, we don’t want shady people fucking up your brain’, and here you are, fucking up my brain yourselves.”

“Yeah, well, on that note,” Arthur says, suddenly turning no-nonsense, “this level of freaked out you’re feeling here? It’s nothing compared to how freaked out you’ll feel if someone extracts from you. So—”

“Jesus,” I say. “And you do this for a living?”

Arthur flaps his hand at me. “Don’t focus on that, it’s not important right now. What we need to focus on is: is this a weak point in your militarisation that can be exploited?”

“You mean, can any suave and devastatingly handsome man distract the head of his subconscious security?” Eames asks. “Or is it just one suave and devastatingly handsome man in particular?”

Arthur’s mouth twitches up into another grin, and he doesn’t argue with Eames’ phrasing at all.

“You two are the worst,” I say.

 

* * *

 

There’s more testing and tweaking, of course. I’m pretty sure my arm is gonna look worse than the arm of Christina’s junkie brother, by the end of this. But the worst thing (or, okay, second worst, because seeing Eames’ dick is still the fucking worst) is that Eames was right. My subconscious _is_ motivated now.

The first time down, my Arthur projection doesn’t even show up to tell me I’m dreaming. I’m just asleep one second, then awake the next, with Eames sitting up beside me, telling Arthur, “My God, I think I was run over by that bald fellow from those Fast or Furious movies.”

The second time, Eames dreams up a water level again. There’s no bubble, but a bunch of underwater tubes, like a rat maze. Doesn’t matter, though.

“A shark,” Eames says, when we’re awake. He looks like he can’t decide between getting pissed or laughing. “And not just any shark, that was bloody Jaws. Never have I been kicked out of a dream by being eaten alive.”

I shrug when Arthur raises an eyebrow at me. “Don’t look at me, man. It’s not like I planned it. I was thinking maybe it’d be mermaids.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Why would—” he sighs, and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

The third time we go down—

“Fucking _Sharknado_ , Jonny? Seriously?”

“What?” I say. “It was on TV a couple weeks ago.”

“Well,” Eames says, “I think that militarisation was a resounding success, unorthodox methods and all.” He stands and stretches. “I do believe this calls for a celebration.”

“No drinking,” Arthur says immediately. Eames deflates. “I’m not going to dinner tomorrow hungover.”

“Not even one?” Eames says, wheedling.

“One drink with you turns into two drinks, then a dozen drinks, and ends with me hugging the toilet in the morning, hoping for death.”

I roll my eyes, because of course Arthur’s got no willpower when it comes to Eames.

“Alright, so drinking is off the table.” Eames smiles slowly at Arthur. “But surely there’s nothing standing in the way of you coming back to the hotel.”

Arthur starts to return his smile, then stops and glances at me with a worried little frown.

“Yeesh, go,” I say, making a face at him. “I don’t need a babysitter, I’m all militarised now and everything. And you’re gonna have to leave eventually. Or were you just gonna camp out in my living room forever?”

Arthur cheers up at that.

Once they’re gone, I flop back onto my couch, relieved. It’s the first time I’ve had my apartment to myself in days, and all I had to do was play gay matchmaker to make it happen.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, I get the apartment to myself for almost a whole day, because Arthur doesn’t come back until early the next evening.

“Hey,” he says, when I open the door. He’s leaning against the doorjamb, posture loose and relaxed, smiling faintly. He looks calmer than he has in days. He looks completely fucked out, as a matter of fact, and— actually, you know what? I’m gonna stop that train of thought right there.

Arthur sprawls out on the couch while I get dressed. A couple minutes later, though, he barges into the bathroom while I’m still in it, and starts fixing his hair.

“Nah,” I say, waving Arthur off when he offers me the hair gel. “I don’t use it much anymore.”

Arthur eyes my hair, curious, then nods. “It looks good, actually.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Really glad to have your approval.”

Arthur rubs the leftover gel through my hair in revenge, and laughs when I swear at him.

He stays in that good mood all through the drive to my parents’ place, too - even surrendering the car keys without a fight. So maybe all he really needed this whole time was to get laid.

(And I’m also gonna stop that train of thought, because that train is the Fuck-No Express to re-traumatising myself with memories of Eames’ dong.

...fuck, too late.)

When we arrive, my mom pounces on us, swinging the door open with a loud, drawn out, “ _There_ you two are!”

She gives both of us crushing hugs, but it’s Arthur who gets most of her attention. She beams after him while he hugs Monica and claps my dad on the shoulder. And she keeps fussing over him after we sit down, peppering him with questions about where he’s been, what he’s been doing, why he’s been gone for so long.

Arthur spins this story about how he’s been swamped ever since his sort-of business partner retired due to a personal tragedy. He throws around terms like ‘handover’ and ‘transition period’, and it’s freakish how believable he sounds.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not surprised. Not after all of Arthur’s technically-not-lies. It’s just weird to think that, only a few days ago, I was like the rest of our family: happily in the dark. Even though I never completely believed Arthur’s lies, it’s not like I ever questioned him about them either.

We’re a quarter of the way through dinner before my mom finally turns to me, smiling, and says, “And you, Jonny? What’ve you been up to?”

It catches me out. I don’t have anything prepared like Arthur does, and it’s not like I can tell the truth.

“Working,” I say, after a too-long pause. “I’ve been sick for the past couple of days, though.”

My mom makes sympathetic noises, while my dad grunts.

“When I was your age, I’d work even when I was sick,” he says. “I toughed it out because I was supporting you and your mom and your sister.”

I ignore him - he’s only in a shitty mood because my mom still won’t let him turn the TV on during dinner. But Arthur pipes up, saying, “Well, Jonny kept busy, even though he was sick. Studying and everything.”

I half-roll my eyes, but nod. My dad just grunts again. My mom beams at us both, then launches straight into asking if Arthur’s seeing anyone. Arthur tries to dodge with his usual regretful little smile and line about how hard it is to maintain a relationship when you’re travelling so much, but my mom doesn’t let it go like she usually does. She goes on and on about how Arthur should be thinking about settling down now. But it isn’t until she mentions that Arthur’s mom is looking forward to being a grandma - and maybe having Arthur move closer to home - that Arthur goes silent and starts squirming.

“C’mon, Mom, you know what the real reason is,” I say finally. “Too many women to choose from.”

Arthur’s mouth twists wryly, then spreads into a grin when my mom gives up with a fond, exasperated huff. I smirk, too, until my mom looks at me with a smile that’s way too wide for comfort.

“Well, speaking of women,” she says, “I heard you were seeing someone.”

I blink. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Nina said so.” My mom waves at the phone. “She said Gabby called Olivia, who called her, saying she saw you with someone. A woman. Saw you with her lots of times, not just once.”

I’m telling you, AT&T would’ve gone broke years ago if it wasn’t for my mom and her friends.

“They said she’s an older woman,” my mom says, with a confused little laugh. “A lot older than you.”

My dad looks up. So does Arthur. Monica doesn’t, but she definitely slows down in texting. I stare at my mom while she stares back, and the silence stretches.

Arthur starts to say something, I think - something about how mature age students tend to naturally drift together - but—

“Mom,” I say, trying not to sound uncomfortable, “do we have to talk about this right now?”

“Oh my God.” My mom’s too-wide smile slips away. “Oh my God, so it’s true?”

I shift in my seat. Arthur shakes his head subtly, but I’ve already started talking. “Well, what does it matter if it’s true?” I say. “It’s not a big deal—”

“It _is_ a big deal, Jonny!” she says. “People are _talking_. And you know it’s a big deal, otherwise you wouldn’t have been hiding it.” She gasps, putting a hand to her chest. “Oh God, is this why you stopped going to church?”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” I say, mouth tightening. “I just…”

“You just what?”

Man, what can I even say here? If I say I was going to tell them about Esther eventually, they’re gonna think me and Esther are something more than what we are. But if I say I wasn’t ever going to tell them, they’re gonna think I’m ashamed or something stupid like that. I’m fucked either way.

Staying silent isn’t really a good choice either, though, because my mom goes pale, almost sways in her seat, obviously assuming the worst anyway.

“Who is this woman?” she asks, hand at her throat. “Is she— do we know her?”

“And how old is she anyway?” my dad adds.

“Her name’s Esther,” I say.

My dad thumps his fist against the table, going from zero to a hundred, like always. “I didn’t ask what her name is, I asked how fucking old she is!”

I grip my fork tighter. “I don’t know,” I say. “Fif— forty-something?”

My mom makes a sound like she’s dying.

“You’re screwing a woman old enough to be your mother?” my dad says. “What the fuck— what is it with you, Jonny? What’s the matter with you? You want some old woman to look after you for the rest of your life, is that it? Christ, you’re a fucking grown man, when are you gonna stop acting like a kid?”

I’m on my feet before I know it, fists clenched, my chair skidding back to hit the wall.

That sets everyone (except Monica) off. My dad’s on his feet too, getting in my face, like he’s done a hundred times before. My mom starts yelling for us to calm down, just like _she’s_ done a hundred times before. Arthur’s standing, moving to get between me and my dad, and it’s like I’ve gone ten years back in time.

Or five years back, or a year back, or half a year back, because _fuck_ — we’ve done this all before. Me quitting college, Arthur going into the Marines, me and Barbara, me and Esther - it’s all the same old shit, dressed up different. And even though it never gets us anywhere, and it never changes anything, we still keep doing it.

“You know what?” I say. “I’m not fucking doing this.” My parents are too busy yelling to hear me at first, but Arthur stops and looks at me, surprised.

“I don’t have to do this,” I say, louder. “I don’t have to stand here and take this shit, and I sure as hell don’t have to explain myself, especially since you’re not gonna fucking listen anyway.” And even though my fists are still itching to take a swing, I force myself to turn and head for the back door.

“Oh yeah, run away, that’s a great idea.” My dad’s voice rises as I stalk through the kitchen. “Really fucking mature, real manly of you!”

My step falters, but Monica says, “Dad,” at the same time Arthur says, “Uncle Jon,” in similar tones, and my dad turns on them, snapping, “ _What?_ ”

I slam out of the house and start walking down the street. My hand goes to my pocket, automatically reaching for my phone, before I re-think it. I’ll talk to Esther. But now isn't the time.

The back door thumps open again, and Arthur barrels out, calling over his shoulder, “Let me talk to him, I’ll talk to him, I’ll handle it—”

I walk faster.

“Jonny,” Arthur calls, jogging after me. “Hey, will you slow down?” He grabs at my shoulder, but I shrug him off and keep walking.

“You’ll talk to me, you’ll handle me?” I say. “Screw you, I don’t need to be handled.”

Arthur huffs. “Come on, I said that to get your parents off your back, you know that.”

“Jesus Christ.” I throw my hands up. “I don’t need you to, I’m a grown ass man!” I whirl around and jab a finger at his chest. “You keep worrying about me, pulling all this protective shit, but you know what? I think I should be worrying about you.”

“What?” Arthur says, startled. “Why?”

“Why?” I stare at him. “You’re seriously asking me why? God, look at the way you’re living. You run from country to country, you barely ever see your family, you get stalked by people who want to kill you—”

“That rarely happens.”

“—you have tell anyone who gets close to you that your family is dead—”

“How many times do I have to say it? I never—”

“If ‘I never actually said that’ is the best argument you’ve got—” I let out a hard breath and shake my head. “Is this what you’re gonna do for the rest of your life, Arthur? Be alone? Talk to your projections when you get too lonely? End up fucking them after all?”

“I never should’ve told you about that,” Arthur mutters. “I did that when I was young and stupid—”

“And what about when you’re old - assuming someone doesn’t kill you before then - and hopefully not stupid?” I say. “What then? If all you do is keep away from everyone, what’ve you got?”

Arthur opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fish. It’d be funny, except for the look on his face, which is— man, I don’t even know. He looks like I just stabbed his dog, then took that same knife and stuck it in his guts. Part of me wonders if that’s what I looked like when Esther told me the way I used to go about having sex was selfish. The rest of me just feels bad.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel shitty or whatever. I— you know. I’m worried about you, man.”

“Right,” Arthur says. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “You don’t have to apologise—”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I do,” I say. “Just ‘cause I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, doesn’t mean it gets a pass. I mean, if I accidentally hit you in the face with a tennis racket, I’d apologise. It’s the same thing.”

There’s a beat.

“Jesus.” Arthur’s laugh is small, disbelieving. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“I’m scarred, man,” I say, straight-faced. “You scarred me. You didn’t even apologise until after I was stitched up. You know why I apologised immediately, just then? Because I’m a bigger person than you are.” I sniff. “Bigger in more ways than one.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur says, turning and heading back for his car. “Well, I’ve never had any complaints from Eames.”

“Ugh,” I say. “Why’d you have to fucking go there?”

Arthur smirks, and tosses the keys to me.

Despite that, I’m in a pretty alright mood as I get in the car. But as I keep driving, this urge to put my foot down - really gun the engine, head for the border, and just keep going - steals over me.

I’m only jolted out of it when Arthur coughs politely, and says, “So, uh— fifty-something, huh? Really?”

“Yeah.” I look sidelong at him. “So what?”

“So nothing.” Arthur shrugs. “I’m just— surprised. I thought Eames was making shit up again.”

“What? Why would he make that up?”

“Sometimes Eames likes to play ‘two truths, one lie’ without telling you you’re playing,” Arthur says, a dry smile touching his mouth.

I shake my head. See? You see what I mean, when I say relationships are about finding the sort of fucked up that works with yours?

“Can I meet her?” Arthur says, out of nowhere.

I raise my eyebrows. “Why? So you can see if she’s treating me okay? Threaten to break her legs if she breaks my heart?”

Arthur elbows me in the ribs.

“For real, though,” I say. “Why do you want to meet her? Because if all you’re gonna do is give us a lecture or some shit—”

“Do I look like the lecturing type?”

“Yes,” I say, and Arthur elbows me again.

“I’m curious,” he says finally. A little cagily, too, and I squint at him, but it’s too dark to make out his expression. “She seems like an interesting person. Now that I know Eames wasn’t making her up.”

“And that’s the _only_ reason you want to meet her?” I say, skeptical.

“What other reason would I have?”

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I can’t really think of a good reason to say no. And— I don’t know. It’d be nice, I guess. To have someone in my family meet Esther and not flip out. Not because it’d _mean_ something. But because it’d be nice to replace that shitshow of a dinner with something better. Assuming Arthur and Esther get along. Esther gets along with most people, but _Arthur—_

“You could just ask her if she wants to,” he says, prodding.

I sigh. “Okay, fine, I’ll ask her.” I narrow my eyes at him. “But no lectures, you hear me? I’m serious.”

“I hear you, I hear you.” Arthur lifts his hands, even crosses his heart, which makes me snort. “No lectures, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I know, I know, I said way back when that this story would be three chapters long. Then five. And now it's six. Six is the final number - I promise (;P)~~
> 
> ETA (10/12/17): Don't listen to me, I am full of shit. May the above author note stand as a testament to my hubris. Or something.


	6. Chapter 6

Esther wants to meet Arthur, of course.

“James said it was uncanny, like looking at identical twins,” she says, when I call her and ask. “I’ve got to see this for myself.”

“Who’s J— oh.” I sigh. I seriously have no idea how Eames and Arthur manage to keep track of all the lies they tell.

The plan is for the three of us to meet up at the No Doze Diner before Esther’s evening classes. It’s this 24-hour joint that’s close to the college, so it’s always filled with students, especially around exams. But to me, it’s the place me and Arthur would stumble to after house parties in high school, when we were still too drunk to go home and it was too cold to hang around outside.

Arthur gives this laughing groan when I tell him where we’re going. “Jesus, the No Doze? Of all the places you could’ve picked, you pick the one place where I threw up on myself in public?” He tosses his car keys back and forth as we walk to his rental. “It’s been more than ten years, and I still get slightly queasy when I smell coffee and grease together.”

“Not surprising.” I snatch the keys from him mid-toss and head for the driver’s side. “And it was your own fault, drinking all those shitty cocktails.”

Arthur makes a choked noise. “You’re the one who mixed those shitty cocktails!”

“Oh, yeah.” I cock my head, then shrug, and get in the car. “Still your fault for drinking them, bro.”

As we drive to the No Doze, I give Arthur the rundown on Esther.

“But the biggest thing, though— don’t ask her about her family,” I say, as we pull up to the curb. “Don’t even try bringing it up, not unless she does. I don’t care how curious you are. It’s— not a good topic sometimes.”

“I know,” Arthur says, sighing. “You don’t have to keep emphasising it, I’m not some insensitive asshole.”

“Uh, yeah, you are.” I dodge Arthur’s swat with ease. “And what do you mean you know? How could you know that already?”

“Oh, it’s— you pick up on these things with practice.” Arthur looks out the window. “Hey, there she is. We probably shouldn’t keep her waiting.” He swings the door open and hops out before I can say, ‘how do you even know what she looks like?’

Esther is sitting in a booth near the door, and her face splits into a huge, amazed grin when we walk in.

“Oh my God,” she says, laughing. She leans up to accept a kiss from me and a handshake from Arthur. “Oh my God, he really wasn’t kidding, it _is_ uncanny.”

She goes on like that for a while longer, talking about doppelganger folklore and the uncanny and Freud, with the occasional creepily accurate observation thrown in (“Your moms got a kick out of dressing you two alike, didn’t they? Until people started talking. Yeah.”). She even makes me and Arthur sit side by side, so she can sit across from us and marvel at how we look more alike than some twins she knows.

It’s all pretty typical for Esther, but Arthur seems taken aback at first - he blinks at each topic switch and half-retreats into his phone, constantly checking it and texting. After a few minutes, though, he puts his phone away and warms up, turning on the low-key charm he keeps hidden under all that frowning.

And I’m just starting to relax, thinking maybe this really _is_ all Arthur wanted to do, when Arthur sets his coffee down and says, “So, how’d you and Jonny meet again?”

“We were in the same class, and we started talking after she asked to borrow my notes,” I say, eyeing him. “I told you that already.”

“I wanted to hear Esther tell it,” Arthur grumbles. “She tells stories better than you do.”

Esther smiles. “It’s true, we did talk after I asked to borrow his notes,” she says. “Although Jon tactfully skipped over certain facts. Such as when we first met, I was crying hysterically, and the first time we had an actual conversation, he was trying to watch porn in class.” She grins at me to take the sting out of it. I shrug and grin back, then laugh outright at the disbelief on Arthur’s face.

And his disbelief only grows when he puts two and two together, and works out that me and Esther are together, but not— you know. _Together_.

“Ha,” I say, elbowing him. “Who’s got antiquated ideas about relationships now?”

Arthur purses his mouth. “That seems like it could get complicated if— oh, come on, you don’t have to give me that look,” he says, when I narrow my eyes. “I’m not lecturing, I’m just making a general observation.”

“Yeah, making a general observation that’ll lead into a lecture,” I say.

“Making a general observation with no judgement whatsoever attached,” Arthur shoots back. Esther looks back and forth between us, amused. “All I’m saying is, people can change. It happens all the time. Don’t you think there’s at least the _potential_ for things to get complicated if you don’t define the boundaries of your relationship?”

“What are you even talking about?” I say, but Esther makes a considering noise.

“That’s a fair point,” she says. “In theory, ambiguity should allow for more freedom, but—” She raises one hand, lets it drop. “The tricky part is making sure everyone involved is on the same page about what 'ambiguous' actually means.”

“ _Yes,_ exactly, thank you. See?” Arthur says to me. “That’s all I was saying. Why do you have to be so defensive all the time?”

I give him a flat look, because really?

“And, of course, because people change,” Esther continues, propping her chin up with one hand, “even if you do have that conversation at the start, you sometimes have to _keep_ having the conversation.” She grins. “The paradox of clearly defined ambiguity.”

Arthur’s face twitches at that. He clears his throat. “So, uh— you guys do that, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Esther says. I just shrug. I mean, it's true - I’ve never spoken as honestly with anyone the way I do with Esther. But fuck Arthur’s borderline lecturing, man.

Arthur nods back at us, uncertain. “Okay. Well. That’s— good.” He looks away, gaze travelling aimlessly around the diner.

I follow his gaze - past the heads of students trying to eat and study at the same time, past the scratched Formica tables and that corner booth where Arthur projectile vomited into his lap all those years ago - over to the window— where I catch sight of Eames strolling past.

Esther does too. She sits up, smiling wide and waving. Eames comes to a stop and looks at us in surprise, like it’s a _complete_ coincidence that we all happen to be here at once.

Arthur tries playing that game too, after Eames has taken a seat beside Esther and charmed the waitress, scoring himself some free coffee along with his bagel.

“James,” Arthur says, sitting back casually. “What’re you doing here?”

“It's the damnedest thing,” Eames says. “I was trying to locate this cafe I saw the other day, but somehow I ended up here instead.” He laughs at himself. “My sense of direction is shocking, truly.”

“Really, Eames?” I say, while staring sidelong at Arthur. “You mean Arthur didn’t invite you? I figured he invited you, with all that texting he was doing.”

Arthur meets my eyes, poker-faced, although he twitches again when Esther says, “Eames? Like the chair?”

“Exactly like the chair,” Eames says. “And, yes, before you ask, my name is indeed James Eames. I’ve long suspected my parents were not fond of me.”

He and Esther go on talking - first about chairs, then about— art, I think - while me and Arthur stare each down. It isn’t until Esther asks Eames which name he prefers going by, and Eames replies with, “I tend to go by Eames, but you may call me whatever you wish,” his voice all smooth and low, that me and Arthur break off to frown at him.

“So,” Eames says, cheerfully ignoring our looks, “what brings you three here today?”

“Like you don’t know,” I mutter, which gets me politely puzzled looks from everyone. “We’re having lunch. Obviously.”

“Having lunch and discussing the merits and pitfalls of ambiguous relationships,” Esther says. “No strings attached, that sort of thing.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Arthur tenses up.

“Ah, ambiguous relationships.” Eames rests one arm on the back of the booth, behind Esther. “My favourite kind of relationship.”

“Are they?” I say, looking at his arm. Eames doesn’t move it. “I thought your favourite kind of relationship was one where someone else pays for everything.”

Eames slants an easy smile at Arthur, who gives him a strained smile back. “Well, what can I say? Everything just seems better when it’s free.” As if to prove his point, the waitress swings by with his bagel and offers to fill up his coffee again (and everyone else’s too, after a moment).

Arthur opens his mouth, hesitates, then turns to Esther and pulls her into a conversation about her classes (and ignores the way I’m now staring at him like a hawk). But as Eames gets close to finishing his bagel, Arthur starts shooting him these intense looks. Not eye-fucking intense, thank God, but still. Intense looks. _Suspiciously_ intense.

When Eames ignores him in favour of finishing off his bagel, Arthur says, “Do you need anything else, Eames?”

“I was considering another cup of coffee,” Eames says, before catching sight of Arthur’s stare. He turns to me with a dull smile. “Actually, come to think of it, I could do with a smoke break.”

“Okay?” I say. “Congratulations?”

“Unfortunately,” Eames says, mechanical as a robot, “it appears I’ve left my cigarettes behind. Would you be able to direct me to the nearest convenience store?”

I start to give him directions, confused, but Eames interrupts with, “I think it’d be best if you showed me the way. As I said, I’m utterly wretched at directions. Who knows, I might end up needing to hotwire a car again to make my way back.” He heads for the door without giving me a chance to reply.

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Esther says, as I get up in a hurry.

“There is, yeah.” I shoot Arthur a dirty look, which he again pretends not to notice. “Arthur can tell you all about it.”

I jog out after Eames, catch up with him around the corner. He’s slowed down to a stroll, hands in his pockets, heading in the direction of the convenience store with no problem.

“You’re a dick,” I say. “Did you seriously do that because Arthur told you to?”

“Yes,” Eames says easily.

“Oh, fuck this.” I turn back toward the No Doze, but Eames catches me by the arm, tutting.

“Now, now,” he says. “I’m supposed to keep you out here for at least ten minutes. No more than fifteen, however, because according to Arthur, that is the threshold where it begins to look odd.”

God. I rub my forehead. “Fucking Arthur.”

“And if you’re concerned about leaving Esther to Arthur’s tender mercies, you needn’t be.” Eames smirks. “If anything, you should be more concerned for Arthur.” He leans back against the wall, watching the cars and passers-by. “Now I’m going to let go of you, and we can either stand here in silence or make idle chit-chat for ten minutes. The choice is entirely up to you.”

“What is it with you?” I say, pulling my arm away. “Why do you just do whatever he tells you to all the time? He’s not even your real fucking boyfriend.”

“Did I mention the part where he reimburses me with—”

“Ugh, God, yeah, but still. _Why?_ ”

“Why not?” Eames shrugs. “My life has considerably more perks when I’m in your cousin’s good books, and it takes no more effort than refusing him.”

“That’s how you see everything?” I say. “How much effort you need to put in versus how much trouble you’ll get in if you don’t?”

“I thought that would’ve been a philosophy that suited you.” Eames smiles when I scowl at him. “And taking things seriously is largely why everyone in your family is high-strung and prone to shouting. It’s not quite my style.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What is your style then?”

“Taking things as they come, as befits my free spirit.” Eames flutters his fingers. “I go hither and thither, where my intuition directs me, like a kite in the wind or—”

“A plastic bag in the breeze?”

“Mm, it lacks a certain poetry,” Eames says, scratching his chin, and I snort out a small laugh.

I lean back against the brick, try to people-watch like Eames is, although I don’t really get why he finds it so interesting. Eventually, two people across the road - a guy and a girl - catch my attention. They’re posing for a couple’s selfie in front of a travel agency, using the cheesy, dream big posters in its windows as a backdrop. _Get out there,_ one poster says. _Your sense of adventure travels for free,_ says another. _It’s a big world - go explore_ , and _It’s easy to get away from it all when you’re riding on the edge of the world._

Free. Easy. Right, sure it is. Let me just pull fuckloads of cash outta my ass and take off, like I don’t have a job I need to keep, or bills and rent to pay, or anything.

“Don’t you ever worry you’ll miss out on stuff, though?” I say, turning to Eames. “If you don’t stay— I mean, if you just go wherever with no plan?”

“I never said I was without a plan,” Eames replies. “And very few things are actually once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.” He sniffs. “In my experience, there’s more danger in putting things off indefinitely because you fear chasing one opportunity will preclude you from others.”

I frown. “You never think it’s too late to do something, then?”

“Mm, no,” Eames says, mouth pursed in thought. “Artificial limits tend to be exactly that. Artificial.”

“Right.” I look down at my feet. “Okay. So when was the first time you—” I stop when Eames’ phone pings three times in a row.

Eames checks it, then raises an eyebrow. “Well. It seems we’ve been given the all clear early.”

When we get back inside, it becomes clear why.

Esther is leaning forward, elbows on the table, grinning, while Arthur is hunched up like a turtle, looking like he’s trying to become one with the booth.

“Whatever she said to you, you deserve it,” I tell him, as me and Eames slide back into the booth. I drape an arm over Esther's shoulders. “Man, I told you. No lectures, no interrogations—”

Esther laughs. “Actually, we were talking about—”

“Nothing,” Arthur says. His eyes flick from Eames to me. “We were talking about— nothing important.”

Esther’s shoulders shake. “Right.” She schools her face into seriousness. “Yes. Nothing important.”

Later, though, as we’re standing outside saying goodbye, Esther takes Arthur by the arm, and says, “I think I understand what you were getting at, though. And I think...” She tilts her head, blows her hair away from her face. “It’s just one of those things. Of course people should have expectations. But I think those expectations should revolve more around how you expect to be treated, rather than what characteristics a person should or shouldn’t have. You know?”

“Right.” Arthur gives her a nervous smile - looking anywhere but at Eames, who’s standing by the car - then mumbles something about work. He shakes Esther’s hand again and says it was nice meeting her, tells me he’ll call me later about my car, then practically sprints away.

“He’s an interesting guy,” Esther says, watching him go. “Complicated.”

“You mean he’s fucked in the head.” I kiss her on the temple. “I’m sorry he gave you the third degree or whatever.”

Esther smiles. “Don’t be. It was a novel experience, having a concerned relative question me and my intentions. Rather sweet, in a way. And besides—” She takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “He wasn’t really asking about us.”

 

* * *

 

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, man,” I say to Arthur, as we sit side by side, watching the auto-electrician poke at my car. “Interrogating Esther when you haven’t even got a handle on your relationship with Eames.”

“There is no relationship between me and Eames,” Arthur says. “Ergo, no need for a handle.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure. That's why you got twitchier than a junkie when we were talking about defining relationships and shit.”

Arthur mutters something, but I don't catch it because that’s the moment the electrician yanks the panel cover off and hauls out a mess of wires. It’s actually kind of painful to watch.

Like, the first time I got behind the wheel of that car? It was freedom and control all at once. No more asking for rides like a dumb little kid, no more begging my dad to let me borrow his car. That car was _mine_ \- my ticket to go wherever the hell I wanted.

Now look at it. Guts hanging out, no power to move. And here I am, just sitting on my ass, waiting for someone else to fix it.

“Tell me this isn't gonna happen again,” I say, eyes still on my car.

“It’s not going to happen again,” Arthur says immediately.

It's loud in the auto shop - impact wrenches and winches going, a radio playing over it all - so Arthur has to raise his voice while he goes on about traceroutes and proxies and false flags and… Jesus, I think Arthur’s just getting loud because he actually finds this shit interesting. He’s such a fucking nerd, it’s unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, when it becomes clear that Arthur isn’t gonna shut up. “Like, yeah, it’s great that you deleted your internet history and all that—”

“Uh, it’s a little more complicated than—”

“—but I was talking about you,” I say. “Tell me this sort of thing isn’t going to happen again to _you_.”

Arthur goes silent.

“I can’t tell you that,” he says finally. He looks off to the side. “You know I can’t, not without lying.” He rubs his forehead. “Look, I don’t feel like getting into another argument about this.”

“So don’t argue,” I say. “Just tell me you’re gonna make changes to the way you do things. Tell me you’re going to be careful. Tell me you’re going to look after yourself.”

“I am careful.” Arthur stares at me like I’m nuts. “I do look after myself, I’ve been looking after myself for years.”

“Well, that’s obviously not enough anymore _._ ” I shake my head when Arthur glares. “Look, is it because— you said you used to have a partner, right? Is it because he quit that you’ve been getting into shit?”

Arthur laughs so loudly that a couple mechanics glance over.

“Maybe you need a new partner, someone to watch your back,” I say, ignoring them and Arthur’s laughter. “Maybe— what about Eames?”

“Why do you keep bringing up—” Arthur raises his eyebrows, gives me a patronising look. “You know, maybe you’re the one with a thing for Eames. Maybe that’s why your subconscious—”

“Ha.” I give him the finger. “Nice fucking try. Why wouldn’t I bring up Eames? You trusted him to watch my ass— to _watch out_ for my ass,” I say, at Arthur’s smirk. “And he was good at it. He saved my freaking life, man. Plus he’s— whatever, like you said. Warmer than you thought. Maybe you can trust him more than you thought too.”

“God, you and your inconvenient fucking memory.” Arthur casts an annoyed glance at the ceiling, then sits forward. “Listen to me. I have been doing this for years without anyone watching my back. I do not want or need a new partner, and even if I did, I wouldn’t approach Eames to be that person. Things are complicated enough between us—”

I start to ask what happened to there being nothing between them, but Arthur gives me a hard, sharp look.

“ _No,_ Jonny,” he says. “Drop it.”

 

* * *

 

I drop it.

For, like, a day, anyway. I mean, _technically_ that’s still playing by the rules, right?

As I drive to the hotel that Arthur (and Eames) is staying at - taking the long way, enjoying the feel of having my car back - I come up with a list of excuses for why I need to speak to Eames alone. When I get there, however, it turns out I shouldn’t have bothered. Arthur’s locked himself in the bedroom - “Working, doesn’t want to be interrupted,” Eames tells me - leaving Eames stuck in the living room, watching shitty daytime TV and ordering room service on Arthur’s dime.

“Fun times,” I say, looking around. The room is actually a one bedroom suite, all slick angular furniture and fancy lighting, although the classy, expensive vibe is ruined by the pile of wrinkled clothes in one armchair (Arthur, I’m betting) and the plates of half-eaten dessert littering the coffee table. I turn to Eames. “Do you wanna get out of here? I can buy you a drink or— whatever, a real meal.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at Eames’ raised eyebrow. “I need to talk to you about something. In private.”

We end up downstairs, at a corner table in the hotel bar, which is decorated in that boring, neutral-toned modern style you see in every hotel over three stars. It’s the sort of place I should aim to work at eventually, I guess. Arthur’s dead wrong about not being able to bartend for life, but I can’t work in nightclubs forever. Bartenders over forty make clubbers depressed, and not the sort of depressed where they buy tons of alcohol to make up for it.

Also depressing: the thought of working in a boring-ass place like this for the rest of my life.

Eames takes me up on that offer of a drink, and spends ages talking about wine with the waiter, while I fidget and try not to sigh too loudly.

When the waiter finally leaves, I lean forward, elbows on the table, and say, “Listen, do you know what you’re going to do after you— after going to Vegas with Arthur?”

“Scout for jobs, I suppose.” Eames settles back in his seat. “Catch whatever opportunities that arise, like the plastic bag in the breeze that I am.”

I half-smile. “But you don’t have anything locked in, right?”

Eames shakes his head.

“Okay, good,” I say, nodding. “Good.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Look, I don’t know how this is normally done - like professionally or whatever - so I’m just gonna come out and ask. Since you don’t have anything planned and you’re already going to be in Vegas… can you do me a solid and look out for Arthur?” When Eames’ eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, I rush to add, “Not the way you had to look out for me. Just, like, watching his back, you know? Can you do that?”

Eames’ expression doesn’t change. For the first time since I’ve met him, I think he’s been shocked into silence. The one time I actually want him to talk, of course.

Eventually, though, Eames raises a finger and says, “First off, you know that Arthur is an adult, yes? A highly competent, dangerous, sexy adult, even.”

Ugh.

“Yeah, I know he’s an adult,” I say, scowling, “but he’s not Superman. He’s not even fucking Batman. The fact that all this shit went down is proof of that.”

“Alright.” Eames rubs his chin. “Well, even if I were in the market for regular bodyguard work, how do you propose I keep this from Arthur?”

“Your whole schtick is making shit up,” I say. “So make something up.”

“Mm.” Eames pauses as the waiter comes back with his glass of wine. He takes a tiny sip, then another, and then another, letting the silence stretch out until I start shifting around.

“Do you want, like, money or something?” I try to remember how much engagement ring money I put away before me and Barbara split. “I guess I can pay—”

Eames snorts. “Even if I did do bodyguarding - and I do not, just to be clear - I doubt you’d be able to afford my fees.”

“Well what do you want then, man?” I go through everything I own in my head, frustrated. Judging by Eames’ beer gut, I doubt he’d be interested in my home gym equipment. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s into video games either, so he probably wouldn’t want my PS3. And I don’t think he’d care about my old porn DVDs, since—

I pause as an idea revs to life.

I mean, it’s kind of a dick move. But I’m pretty sure it’ll get Eames on my side and keep Arthur safe, and it’s not like Arthur’s ever gonna know, so—

“Do you wanna see where Arthur grew up?” I say, leaning back and copying Eames’ relaxed pose. “Like, the wall of shitty haircuts and his childhood bedroom and all that?”

Eames’ polite expression shifts into the sly, smirking one I’m more used to seeing. “Now that is more like it.” He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket, slides a napkin over to me. “If you’ll just jot down the address here—”

“What? No way.” I push the pen back over to him. “I’m not gonna let you break into my aunt and uncle’s house. They’ll flip out for days if they come back and find the lock broken—”

Eames splutters and rears back in his seat. “I wouldn’t break the lock. What kind of rank amateur do you take me for? Do you not recall how delicately I picked your lock? You didn’t even—”

“No,” I say again. “There’s not gonna be any lock picking or tampering or whatever. I’ve got a better solution.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Mom,” I call out, as I let myself in through the back kitchen door.

The TV, which had been blaring the theme song for _The Bold and the Beautiful_ , turns off abruptly.

“Jonny?” My mom sticks her head into the kitchen, eyes a little wide. There’s a beat, and then she breaks into a huge, relieved smile. “Sweetie, this is such a surprise, I wasn’t expecting you until Sunday!”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. My mom has never hung onto her anger as bad as my dad, but still. I let her wrap me up in a bear hug, let her steer me to the table where I sit, waiting while she pulls out a dozen Tupperware containers filled with leftovers and antipasto.

I told Eames to give me a couple hours, so I’m in no hurry as I take something from every container and stuff my face. It’s an automatic reaction - this is what I did every afternoon as a kid, and whenever I came back from college, too.

(Although there was this one point, just after I started college, when the food spreads dried up - my mom’s way of protesting my choice to live in the dorms instead of living at home and commuting in.

That only lasted until she saw how rarely Arthur visited, though. After that, my mom would practically empty out the fridge every time I walked through the door.)

In between mouthfuls, I check if Aunt Maria and Uncle Nick left their house keys with my mom. When she says they did, I tell her Arthur needs them, that I’m here to pick them up because he’s caught up in work calls. My mom doesn’t question it. Just goes to fetch them and hands them over, then sits down to watch me eat, all pleased and fond.

“You know what’s wonderful?” she says. “It doesn’t matter how old you get— when I see you sitting at my table like this, eating my food, I know you’re still my good boy.”

I shrug a shoulder, smiling a little.

“No, really,” my mom says. She reaches over and gives my free hand a squeeze. “I’m so lucky to have you as a son. Other mothers—” She sighs. “Like your Aunt Maria? Arthur worries her sick. What with the way he never answers her calls, and all that time he spends travelling— you remember that time he didn’t come home for over a year? Not to mention the fact he isn’t even _trying_ to settle down.” She purses her lips. “It’s like he’s forgotten what’s important.”

I frown. She’s never— I’ve never heard her talk about Arthur this way before. Even a month ago, I would’ve gotten a kick out of hearing that someone - _anyone_ , never mind my mom - thought Arthur was less than perfect. But now—

“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. I mean, yeah, Arthur’s shit with phone calls, but to be honest, he’d probably answer Aunt Maria’s calls more if she stopped bringing up grandkids all the time. “Arthur’s got his reasons for being away so often—” I cut myself off before she demands to know what those reasons are. “And, you know, Arthur’s job— he’s gotten to see some pretty cool stuff because of it. Things you’d never see around here.”

My mom’s expression darkens. “And that makes it alright to forget about your family? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“No,” I say, blinking. “How did you get that from—” I spread my hands. “All I’m saying is, maybe Aunt Maria worries too much. Arthur usually makes it back for Christmas or Thanksgiving—”

“Usually.”

“And he’s never forgotten anyone’s birthday or anniversary or anything. He always leaves a message or sends a present, which - let’s be real - is more than what Dad or Uncle Nick ever does.” I smile, trying to make a joke out of it, but my mom gives me a hard, flat look. I sigh. “So what if he’s not around all the time? He still cares.”

“He _cares_?” my mom says. “Showing up when it’s convenient, buying expensive presents every now and then—” She makes a noise of disgust. “That’s not how you show you care. You show you care by sticking around, by putting the people you love first.” She grabs my plate and takes it to the sink, even though I’m not done, leaving me holding my fork in the air like an idiot. “I thought you knew that already.”

I stare at her back, and think of my dad, checked out in front of the TV every night while my mom talks at him. I think of the way Aunt Maria and Uncle Nick talk to each other, just waiting for the other to finish so they can start a conversation about something else. How is that any better than what Arthur does? At least Arthur pays attention when he’s around.

“I meant it, you know,” my mom mutters. “I always felt so lucky, so— blessed that I never had to worry about you like that. You always answer my calls, I see you every Sunday. But now you’re—” She turns to me, twisting her fingers, her eyes pleading for— something. I don’t know what. “All these things you’ve been doing lately. Turning your back on the church, seeing that woman— I don’t understand. This isn’t the Jonny I know. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” I say, but even as I say it, I know it’s not true. Not completely.

“Don’t give me that,” my mom says. “You wouldn’t be acting this way if nothing was wrong.”

I shake my head, but she refuses to let it go, keeps pushing at me for a reason - asking if I’m unhappy at work, if it’s my coworkers, if I’m still not over Barbara - and all I can do is keep shaking my head, saying, “No,” and “I don’t know,” over and over. I don’t have the words to explain it to her. Hell, I can’t even explain it to myself.

“How can you not know?” she demands, sitting back down across from me. “You’re not an animal, Jonny, you can’t just do things without thinking about them—”

“I said I don’t know!” I burst out. “I don't know why I’m doing all this shit, okay? I just feel like I’m always— wondering these days. It’s like—” I scrub my hands through my hair, trying to find the words that will make her understand. “Haven’t you ever just wondered? Like, haven’t you ever thought about how your life might be different if you— whatever, if you moved away from here, or went back to work, or married someone other than Dad? What if you’d done any of that instead of just this?”

My mom’s eyes widen. And for a second I think: she gets it. I got through to her. She knows what I’m talking about, she _has_ wondered before, I can see it in her face—

And then she starts to cry.

“Mom,” I say, gut shrivelling. I cringe when she lets out a sob. “Mom, come on, don't—”

“Just this?” she says. “What is that supposed to— what’re you saying? That a life like this isn’t good enough for you? Finding someone to spend the rest of your life with, building a home where you can raise happy, healthy children—” Her voice cracks. “That isn’t worth anything to you?”

“That’s not what I said.” I look down at the table, but that doesn’t block out her crying. “I didn’t mean it like that, you’re not listening—”

“Oh, I’m listening,” my mom says, breath hitching. “You think Arthur has the right idea. You think the way he lives is better than this.”

“No,” I say, but it comes out… weak. Uncertain. My mom must hear the uncertainty because she starts crying harder, and _fuck,_ I just want her to stop.

I try to think of something to say - something that will satisfy her, calm her down. But the only thing I can come up with is taking it back - saying I’m wrong, Arthur is wrong - and I _can’t._ I can’t say it. I don’t want to say it. It isn’t true.

I clench my fists beneath the table, and the keys bite into my palm, reminding me. Eames. I stand up so quickly that my knee smacks against a table leg. My mom jumps at the noise.

“I have to— I should take these to Arthur.” I wave the keys, still avoiding her eyes. I swallow. “I’ll bring them back. When we’re done.”

I leave without looking back, like the shitty son she thinks I am.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s old house is a lot like my parents’ place - single storey, built in the sixties, lots of wood panelling - although unlike my parents, Aunt Maria likes to redecorate every few years. Somehow, though, things never change too much. I mean, yeah, they might repaint the walls or get a new lounge set, but the important stuff? That never changes.

Like, Aunt Maria’s tabletop shrine to the Virgin Mary? Still in the same corner of the living room. That ugly-ass black and gold floor lamp they got imported from Italy? Still in the corner opposite. Aunt Maria may have a new coffee table, but she still has the same old bowl of wax fruit sitting on it. (Once, when we were six, Arthur convinced me to take a bite out of the fake apple - it tasted like crap, and then we had to hide it at the bottom of the bowl so Aunt Maria wouldn’t find it.) Even the new lounge set is positioned like the old one: couch and armchairs at right angles, one armchair hiding that scorch mark on the rug (me and Arthur again, fucking around with matches).

I swear to God, I could lead Eames around this house blindfolded and not bump into anything, it seriously hasn’t changed at all.

Eames chuckles when I say as much. “Yes,” he says, “I’m quite familiar with that particular form of stagnation.”

We move from the lounge room to the kitchen, then the bathroom, then the den. I talk and talk, telling Eames stories about whatever I can remember, and it feels— not good, but relieving, I guess. As long as I’m thinking about this stuff, I’m not thinking about my mom. I keep talking right up until we get to the hallway (AKA: Arthur’s Shitty Haircuts through the Ages) because— well, the photos speak for themselves. We spend at least ten minutes there, Eames moving up and down the hall, grinning and taking photos with his phone.

But that’s nothing compared to when I lead him to the end of the hall and open the door, saying, “And this is Arthur’s room.”

Was Arthur’s room, technically, but Aunt Maria never moved a thing from it after Arthur moved out, other than to dust and vacuum. It means Arthur’s bed with the wobbly footboard (knocked loose when me and Arthur practiced roundhouse kicks on it) is still there, and his posters are still tacked up on the wall opposite, all of them slightly faded and sagging now. His desk is still by the window, bookshelf beside it, although when Arthur was living here, the desk was always covered by piles of crap (because Arthur thought he could make his mess look neater by putting things in piles), and the shelves were double stacked to hold both his books and his running trophies.

Eames sidles into the room - actually sidles in, like a cartoon - hands in his pockets, grinning so hugely I can see all his crooked teeth. He zeroes in on the bookshelf and heads for it, before coming to a dead halt in front of one of the posters: _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ \- Indiana raising his whip, ready to kick ten kinds of ass.

“Yeah, that was Arthur’s favourite movie,” I say, walking over to stand beside him. “Probably still is, I dunno.”

“Really,” Eames says. “Fascinating.” He tilts his head, smirking, and his smirk is almost an exact copy of Indiana’s. He pivots to look at Arthur’s bed behind us, then back at the poster. “Interesting choice. Interesting positioning, too.”

I frown. “What do you mean? It’s his favourite movie, why wouldn’t he have a poster of it?”

“Oh, of course, of course.” There’s laughter lurking in Eames’ voice. “But this particular poster? Indiana Jones with his chest bared, right across from his bed?” His smirk widens out into a grin again. “Tell me, what sort of posters did you have opposite your bed?”

 _Sports Illustrated_ swimsuit models. But—

I roll my eyes. Whatever. It’s just Indiana and his whip. Like, yeah his shirt’s hanging open so there’s some man tit action going on, but that’s just— I mean—

“Bro,” I say, loud and annoyed, “why do you always have to try and make everything gay?”

Eames bursts out laughing. “There’s no trying about it, I assure you. Arthur was already doing a perfectly good job making everything gay himself.” He laughs some more when I scowl at him, then goes and sprawls out on Arthur’s bed before I can tell him not to. He tucks his hands behind his head, eyes bright. “So what else did Arthur enjoy watching?”

“You can see for yourself.” I jerk my thumb at the posters, still scowling. “He liked action stuff. Cool guys doing cool shit.”

“Cool, highly attractive men doing cool things while shirtless, no doubt,” Eames says, with too much glee. “Or with their shirts gaping open, at least.”

“Man, shut up.”

So there’s _Conan the Barbarian_ , right? But the dude’s a freaking barbarian, shirts aren’t their thing. Same deal with _Hercules_. And, like, the last poster is _Highlander_ , and _that_ guy is wearing a huge-ass fur cloak.

Except— he lost his shirt a lot in that show. Same as Hercules. Usually near rivers. Or in the rain. And—

“Oh, what the fuck,” I say, which sets Eames off into another laughing fit.

He gets over it after half a minute or so, and heaves himself off the bed to go through Arthur’s stuff. I sit down at Arthur’s desk, arms crossed, watching him closely, just in case his urge to swipe shit takes over. But Eames seems more interested in going through Arthur’s closet and his books than his medals. He pulls out the most worn-looking books - the ones with the bent, cracked spines - and skims the pages they fall open at. I can’t read them from this distance, but whatever Eames sees makes him smile like— I dunno. It’s this small, complicated smile. Kind of amused, kind of knowing. Maybe a little sad.

Eames turns to me, and now I see he’s holding Arthur’s copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , which is so worn that the spine is being held together with tape. I sorta remember having to read that book in high school. Well, mostly I remember how crabby Arthur got - crabbier than usual - when I asked if I could copy his essay. (He let me, though. Even read it over afterwards, to make sure it sounded like I wrote it and that the parts I changed made sense.)

“Was Arthur often lonely?” Eames asks, and there’s a stillness to him that makes me blink. “In your opinion.”

“No?” I say. “I mean, he wasn’t some awkward loser who smelled like cheese, if that’s what you’re asking. He had plenty of friends, chicks were crazy over him.” I smirk. “They thought he was all gentlemanly and shit because he never tried anything with them.”

Eames doesn’t smirk back. He just hums, thoughtful. “So he was well-liked.” He leans a shoulder against the bookshelf. “However, it’s entirely possible to be surrounded by people and loved ones and still feel utterly alone, wouldn’t you agree?”

I open my mouth. Close it, frowning.

“Arthur wasn’t lonely,” I say. He might be lonely _now_ , travelling all over the world like he does, but— “I’ve known him my whole life, I would’ve noticed if he was.”

One corner of Eames’ mouth curls up, and he tilts his head at the poster of Indiana. “You notice everything, do you?”

A warm flush crawls up my neck. “That’s just a poster. It’s small shit. I saw the stuff that mattered.”

“Small to you, perhaps,” Eames replies. “But I think it would’ve meant a great deal to Arthur, to have someone who understood even the small things.”

“ _You_ think.” I look around Arthur’s room, at all the memories Eames still has no idea about, and shake my head. “You think— what? You poke around Arthur’s place for an hour, you see his bedroom, you think you know him?” I scoff. “Come on, man. You didn’t know he was from Jersey, you didn’t know he had family here. You didn’t even suspect, so you’re obviously not as good at reading people as you think you are.”

Eames’ expression sours, even as he tries for a dismissive sniff. “A minor error.”

“Minor to you, maybe,” I shoot back, and Eames’ face sours even more.

“Well, I suppose it’s unsurprising you’d prescribe to the pedestrian notion that merely being around someone for years automatically grants you a deep knowledge of them,” he says. “Thinking otherwise would probably be unbearable for you.”

“What?” I say. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, think about it, really.” Eames draws himself up, hitching his pants up by his belt and waving the book around with his other hand. “If you follow that logic all the way through, the people who ought to know us best - barring premature death and other unfortunate conditions - are our dear parents, and how often is that true? Would you say your father knows you?” He cocks his head, his eyes like sharp little chips of glass. “Do you think your mother understands you?”

I suck in a quick breath. “Just because—” I stop, swallow against this tightness in my throat. “Just because you have massively fucked up issues with your family, it doesn’t mean the rest of us—”

“Mm.” Eames leans toward me with a narrow little smile. “How’s that for reading someone well?”

My fingers clench, and the tightness in my throat transforms into a choking ball of anger that I latch onto, because angry is better than— this. The twist in my gut and the pressure behind my eyes when I think of how badly I wanted to hear my mom say that she got it, the look on her face when I said— when I couldn’t say—

I shove myself up from the chair, and Eames straightens, shoulders pulling back, but he doesn’t back away. He just tilts his chin up, looks down the length of his nose at me, and the way he’s holding his body tells me he’s expecting a swing, is bracing himself for it, might even be looking forward to it, and I— I remember.

I remember doing this a hundred times, a thousand times - getting to my feet, going toe-to-toe in arguments with Arthur, with my dad, with any guy I thought was disrespecting me. Not thinking about it, just _doing_ , because doing nothing wasn’t an option. This is more of the same. The same anger, the same moves, just with a different player. And I remember too: I don’t have to do this. Not with my family, and not with Eames either.

I uncurl my fingers. Breathe in deep, let it out. But there’s still that ache in my chest, one that Eames made worse, even if he didn’t put it there, and I can’t just let that slide either. It makes my voice comes out uneven as I say, “You wanna know what I think? I don’t think Arthur was lonely. But I think you’re hoping he was because _you_ were that lonely motherfucker as a kid.”

“And why on earth would I hope for that?” Eames asks. His voice sounds light, his eyes amused, but I see it, the way the corners of his mouth twitch down for a second, like the first shudder of a car when the engine’s threatening to give out.

“Because you want an in with Arthur,” I say, stepping forward. “Because you wanna have something in common with him other than being a couple of shady criminals.” My voice steadies out for every millimetre that Eames’ smile shrinks. I shove him in the chest. “Because you’ve got feelings for him.”

Eames’ smile evaporates, then comes back patronising. “That is an embarrassingly inept attempt at deduction, honestly.” He turns away to put Arthur’s copy of Gatsby back on the shelf. “You do realise that establishing a connection based on common ground is how you work a mark?”

I squint at the back of his head. “That’s what you’re going with? You expect me to believe all this interest in Arthur and what he was like as a kid is—”

“Mere curiosity,” Eames snaps. “I’m curious, not _interested_.” He turns back around, arms folded across his chest. “I am here for the sole purpose of amusing myself, nothing more.”

“Right,” I say slowly. Unbelievably, a small part of me (like, a really small part) is starting to feel sorry for him. I raise my hands. “Look, whatever. I said it before, man. Arthur’s a fucking catch. It’s not surprising if you’ve— caught feels.” I grimace, but not as badly as Eames does.

“That is not what—” Eames looks away. “The matter of Arthur’s charms is— not that I’m saying they _are_ charms, or that I find them—” He stops, nostrils flaring, and fixes me with a tight stare. “Well. Believe what you will, you’re clearly too bloody-minded to do otherwise. But amusing myself is what I came here to do, and now that objective has been achieved, it is time we departed.” He straightens his jacket and stalks out.

He's obviously expecting me to follow, like I’m the hired help or some shit, so I take my sweet ass time. I put Arthur’s chair back, smooth out the blanket and pillows, until everything is back the way it was. But still—

It feels like it’s all changed.

 

* * *

 

We drive back to the hotel in silence, although I catch Eames shooting these frustrated, disbelieving looks at me out of the corner of my eye. When I pull into the hotel driveway, he gets out of the car before I’ve even come to a complete stop.

“You’re welcome,” I call out as he stomps away. “Don’t forget, we made a deal!”

Eames flips me off without looking back.

 

* * *

 

The light turns green, and the car ahead of me inches forward. I inch forward too. Two, maybe three cars make it past before the light turns red again. I try to keep my breathing light and regular, even as the irritation crawls up my spine.

So this is my reward for trying to make sure Arthur will be safe: getting stuck in peak hour traffic. I mean, it’s perfect, really. Like, no good deed and all that.

Green. Inch forward. Yellow. Take my foot off the accelerator. Red. Stop.

My stomach growls. I haven’t had anything to eat besides a protein shake and those leftovers at my mom’s, not that I even got to finish those, since—

The ache in my stomach sharpens.

Fucking Eames, I think. Fucking Arthur.

Green, inch forward. Yellow, slow down. Red—

I hit the brake harder than I need to, and the guy behind me blasts his horn, yelling, “ _Jesus fucking Christ_.”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Stare straight ahead while the guy rants, acting like I can’t hear him, just like everyone else around us is doing. I can feel their little side-glances, though - judging me, embarrassed for me. And as he goes on - insulting my car, my brains, the size of my dick - it gets harder and harder to remember that I don’t have to react. That I don’t have to get out and put that douchebag in his place. It gets harder to block out the voice inside me saying— _God,_ what the fuck am I doing?

I’m just sitting here, taking this like some dickless wonder, same as I’ve been taking everything that Arthur and Eames have been throwing my way, and for what?

I mean, think about it. If I hadn’t taken Eames on that stupid ass trip down memory lane, I’d be chilling at home right now. If hadn’t listened to all the bullshit they were spouting, I’d be— I’d be doing what I’ve always done. I’d be fucking happy. I wouldn’t be thinking so much stupid shit all the time, and me and my mom, we never would’ve—

Hell, maybe I should. Go back to what I’ve always done, I mean.

I could go back to church. I could take my dad up on that offer to work with him. I could let my mom and my aunts set me up with some girl. I could have my whole life set up for me, and all I’d have to do at the end is get behind the wheel, drive on autopilot.

Why shouldn’t I?

There’s no good reason for me not to except—

Except— I’d feel like this for the rest of my life. Like I’m boxed in on every side, traffic or no traffic. And the thought is so goddamn miserable that I’m ready to put my foot down on the accelerator, ram every car out of my way, keep going until I hit a stretch of road that’s free and clear, until I can finally _breathe_.

The urge passes because I’m not a fucking lunatic, but the feeling— that stays, and it’s joined by this crushing pressure against my chest as I think: I don’t want to.

I don’t want to feel like this forever, but what else am I supposed to do? I mean, what else is there, unless I want to pull an Arthur and say screw my family, screw all the people who’ve been good to me my whole life, what they want doesn’t matter at all? My mom was wrong about Arthur not caring, but maybe she wasn’t wrong about everything.

There’s got to be another way. The thought hammers in my head, louder than that douchebag’s shouting. There’s got to be some kind of middle ground, some other road I can’t see because there’s too much shit in my head. If I could just find some way to clear it, I’d be able to—

I stop. Straighten up in my seat, my heartbeat kicking into high gear because there _is_ a way.

When the light turns green again, I make a U-turn and gun it back to the hotel.

 

* * *

 

After a full thirty seconds of knocking, Arthur opens the door.

“Jonny?” He frowns, looks up and down the hallway. “What’re you doing here?” He’s dressed down - no tie, no hair gel, shirt untucked - but his expression is— off. Wary.

“Uh,” I say, thrown. “I was wondering if I could—” I clear my throat, try again. “I need to use the PASIV.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. “Why?”

“I just do.” I flex my fingers, resisting the temptation to jam my hands into my pockets. “I wanna talk to my subconscious.”

Arthur’s mouth curves around the word _why_ again, before he seems to rethink it. He glances over his shoulder, then opens the door wider, and tugs me inside.

The coffee table has been cleared of plates, but the pile of clothes on the armchair has collapsed, shirts and pants trailing onto the floor. A pair of shoes - Eames’, judging by the retro style - has been kicked off beside it, and the grey jacket Eames was wearing when I last saw him is lying in a heap a few feet away.

Arthur motions for me to sit on the couch while he goes into the bedroom. I hear a short, low conversation - one that ends in Eames saying, “You _cannot_ be serious,” - and then Eames sticks his head out, hands braced on either side of the doorframe. He narrows his eyes when he spots me. I give him a flat look back.

“I should probably warn you—” Arthur pauses behind Eames’ arm, PASIV in hand, but Eames doesn’t move. If anything, he looks like he’s trying to crowd Arthur in more. They stare each other down for a couple seconds, before Arthur mutters something under his breath and shoulders his way past. He forces a half-smile at me. “This might not work. You’ve seen what the subconscious can do.” And then he slips into another one of his mini-lectures, talking a little too fast about Freudian defense mechanisms and repression while he sets the PASIV up on the coffee table.

I stare at him. “I’m not repressed.”

“No, I know,” Arthur says. “What I mean is—” He trails off, all his attention shifting to something in the PASIV’s jumble of wires.

Eames humphs, still clinging to the doorframe. “What he means is, this sort of mental rummaging requires a high degree of self-awareness to be successful.” _And you don’t have that,_ his look says.

“Self-awareness,” I say. “That’s just, what, being able to admit stuff to yourself? Admitting stuff like having fe—”

Eames gives me a split-second crazy-eyed glare over Arthur’s head.

“Okay, all set,” Arthur says, sitting back. He looks back and forth between me and Eames. “Uh. What?”

“Nothing,” we say at the same time.

 

* * *

 

One level down, Arthur dreams up my apartment.

“The fuck.” I look around. “Shouldn’t you create a place that can hold lots of projections?”

“Usually,” Arthur says, sounding distracted. He sits down on my couch. “But this sort of thing requires your subconscious to feel completely at ease. I couldn’t think of a place that would hold a crowd, but where you’d also feel totally comfortable being yourself.”

“Eames created this huge underwater bubble,” I say. “That felt pretty comfortable.”

Arthur’s mouth tightens. “Yeah, well, I’m not Eames.”

“No shit.” I eye his sudden stiff posture. “Did I, like… interrupt something? Before?” I point upward.

“No,” Arthur says. “What makes you think—” He goes still.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, even as his distant, wary expression returns. “I was just— thinking.” He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “How’s the car?”

“Good.” I push away the memory of my almost freak out at the wheel. “Running great.”

“Mm.” Arthur drums his fingers against the couch, watching me closely. “Hey, do you remember that time you pretended to be me in high school? You wanted to get with— what was her name, Laura? Lara? But she had this thing for me, so you pretended you were me, and—”

“Wait, what?” I say. That’s not what happened. I mean, Lara did have a thing for Arthur, and I did pretend to be him, but not because I was into her - she was too scrawny, not the type I’ve ever gone for. The only reason I did it was to get her off Arthur’s back, let her down easy-like, because Arthur was too chickenshit to do it himself, you know?

(It didn’t work.)

Arthur doesn’t seem to notice my confusion and just keeps talking, asking me if I remember this thing or that person from when we were kids. Some of it’s right, but most of it isn’t, and while part of me is worried that all the PASIV drugs have burned holes in Arthur’s brain after all—

“What’re you even doing, man?” I say. “That’s not how any of that went. And how the fuck am I supposed to feel at ease when you’re interrogating me like this?”

Arthur blinks. “Oh, it is you.”

“Are you high?” I squint at him. “Who else would I be?”

“I thought maybe— I was checking. That you weren’t a projection.” Arthur stares into space again, then gets up abruptly. “You should sit. Relax. I’m gonna—” He turns away without finishing that sentence and starts pacing around, living room to kitchen, examining everything like he’s casing the joint.

“Shouldn’t we go somewhere else?” I say, when it dawns on me that Arthur doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon. “Find some projections?”

“No.” Arthur opens a cabinet and peers inside, then runs his fingers along the underside of the counter. “No, I told you, for this to work, you need to be—”

“Uh, yeah, I can think of plenty of places where I feel comfortable,” I say, as I head for the door. “And none of them include having to watch you act like a crazy tweaker.”

I undo the latch, grab the doorknob, and twist. It doesn’t budge. I press the push-button lock a couple times, rattle the knob, but the door stays locked.

“The fuck is with this?” I look back at Arthur.

“I don’t know.” Arthur’s face is blank. He spreads his hands. “I did warn you this might not be successful. The mind always works to protect itself from unwelcome truths.”

“No.” I shake my head, frowning. “That’s not— that can’t be right.” I think about the Barbara projection saying all that shit, even though I didn’t want to hear it. And now I _do_ want to hear, so—

I point at the door, eyes narrowing. “Are you doing this?”

Arthur’s only response is to turn and march straight into my bedroom.

“ _Hey,_ ” I say, following him in. My irritation spikes up when I find him going through my stuff - he’s pulling my drawers open, shoving clothes aside, picking things up from the shelves and squinting at them, then tossing them aside—

“Hey!” I stalk over as Arthur picks up the box - the one I kept Aunt Val’s DVD in - and snatch it out of his hands, shoulder checking him. “What are you, some kind of animal now? You can’t treat other people’s shit like this.”

Arthur catches himself against the shelf, looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “This is a dream, Jonny. This isn’t actually your stuff.”

“That’s not the point,” I snap. “It’s _my_ subconscious stuff, and when I say don’t touch my stuff, I expect you not to fucking touch it.”

“God, what is with you lately?” Arthur reaches for the box again, and I jerk back, out of his reach.

“What’s with me?” I say. “What’s with _you_? I ask if I can use the PASIV to— to sort some shit out, and you’re fucking with it. What’s your problem?”

“Other than you being unreasonable? Nothing.” Arthur turns back to my shelves. I grab his wrist before he can touch anything.

“Bullshit,” I say. “It’s Eames, isn’t it? It’s Eames and— whatever you guys were getting into before I came.” When Arthur scowls, I let his arm drop, annoyed. “Fine, don’t answer. I don’t care. But if all you’re gonna do is get in the way, why don’t you kick yourself out and—”

“The dream will collapse if I do,” Arthur grits out, “and you’re not trained, you can’t come down on your own.”

“Jesus, then bring Eames down here!” I say, throwing my hands up. The box rattles loudly in my grip. “You two can get back to whatever it was, and I can go talk to my projections on my own, problem solved.” I pause when Arthur’s jaw clenches. “What? You don’t want that?”

Nothing but stubborn, sulky silence from Arthur.

I frown as all the little pieces start snapping together: Eames not wanting to let Arthur get past, his glare when I almost mentioned his feelings, Arthur rushing to set the PASIV up—

“You’re hiding?” My eyebrows shoot up so high it feels like they’re gonna join my hair. “You’re stopping me from working my shit out because you’re too much of a pussy to deal with yours? What the fuck, man.”

Arthur’s face goes blotchy red. “ _I’m_ a pussy?” He shoves forward until we’re nose to nose. “I’m not the one who has to get my mom and dad’s approval before I’ll decide on anything. I’m not the one who’s kept my entire life on hold for years because I’m too scared to go my own way or try thinking for myself—”

“Yeah,” I say hotly, “you’re just scared of _Eames._ ”

“My goodness,” a very cheerful, very English voice says. “What on earth could be so frightening about little old me?”

I swing around. Eames is standing there, hands braced against the doorframe, just like he was in the real world. Beside me, Arthur locks up, face going pale. You know that phrase ‘deer in headlights’? Yeah, I’ve never actually seen someone look like that until now.

“When did—?” Arthur gapes. “You have no right to just— how long have you been listening?”

Eames ignores him in favour of giving me a little wink. “Everything alright?”

“As good as it can be,” I say, “with your fake boyfriend here locking us in and stopping me from getting answers.”

“Ah, well, that was a bit of a misstep, going to Arthur,” Eames says, wincing. “If you want a colour-coded spreadsheet or a killjoy to shut down the party, you call Arthur. If you want a confused mind sorted out, you come to _moi._ ” He ambles over and perches on the edge of my bed, gives the mattress a little pat. “Come on then. Lay back and tell me all about it. It’s not quite a psychiatrist’s couch, but it’ll do.”

“Thanks,” I say, searching his face for any of the irritation he was showing before. There isn’t any. “But I’m good.”

“Have it your way.” Eames shrugs. “I can do this just as easily with you standing up as I can with you laying down.” He smiles slyly at me. “I’m versatile.”

Arthur steps forward. “Seriously, Eames,” he says, voice low. “Get out. Right now.”

Eames doesn’t react at all to that, and I tilt my head, thinking.

“You’re not him, are you?” I say. “You’re a projection. Mine or his?” I jerk my chin at Arthur, who comes to a halt, blinking.

“Oh, I’m perfectly happy to be shared,” the projection says.

I roll my eyes. “You’re his.”

“That's somewhat debatable at the moment,” Eames replies, and there's an edge to his smile now. He still hasn't looked over at Arthur.

Arthur’s face tightens. “Okay, that's enough. Either you leave now—” He makes a flicking gesture, and a gun appears in his hand. He levels it at Eames, his mouth a grim line.

“What? Hell no.” I shove his arm away and down. “This is like the first helpful thing you’ve done since we came down.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Eames says, looking like he gives zero fucks about almost being shot in the face, while Arthur glowers.

“It's not your projection,” he says. “You're not going to get any answers from it about your subconscious.”

“Yeah, but it’s your projection of Eames, and Eames actually listens when I talk.” The second the words leave my mouth, the truth of it hits me like a Mack truck. Aside from Esther, the only person who’s always listened is Eames, and how fucked up is that?

We both look at Eames, who’s looking at me with gentle sympathy. If I had any doubts about him being a projection, they're gone now. Eames has given me a lot of different looks, but never one like that.

“Not everyone appreciates being truly seen and heard,” he says. “It can be… disconcerting.” As if to prove his point, he nods at the box I’m still holding. “What’s in there?”

I tuck it under my arm without thinking. “Nothing.”

Eames tsks. “Now that was the utterly wrong response to give if you wanted to deter my curiosity. A better response would’ve been something like, ‘Eh, just boring shit’.” He says it in my accent, and mimes opening and closing the box casually. “The key is nonchalance.”

I crack a smile. Can’t help it.

Arthur looks back and forth between us, all his paranoid anger suddenly gone. He looks like the little kid who’s been picked last at football - shoulders hunched, quiet and miserable. I drop my eyes to the box.

Opening it shouldn’t be a big deal. The real box— it’s nothing important. I hardly ever open it, except when I’m cleaning and need to pack something else away. But this is a dream. There could be anything in this box, and Arthur is standing right there.

This restless itch starts up under my skin, joined by a queasiness in my gut. To shake it off, I start straightening out the mess Arthur made, keeping the box tucked under my arm. I wouldn’t put it past Eames to make a grab for it, projection or not. Neither Arthur or Eames say anything at first, but after I finishing folding my clothes and move onto sorting out the stuff on my shelves, Arthur’s sad-eyed look dissolves into something a lot more familiar.

“For God’s sake, what’re you doing?” he snaps. “I told you already, this isn’t your real fucking room.”

“Yeah, and like I told _you_ , I don't give a shit,” I snap back automatically, until something— this flicker of relief in Arthur’s eyes stops me - reminds me. I shake my head, taking a step back. “Nah. No. I said it before, I’m not doing this anymore. And fuck you for trying to make me.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. I eye him, then give Eames a nod, and head out into the lounge room, leaving Arthur to his goldfish-with-a-concussion impression.

Footsteps follow behind me, then stop when Arthur bites out, “And where the hell are _you_ going?”

“Away,” Eames replies, mild. “That’s what you wanted, no?”

In the silence that follows, I set the box down on the coffee table and sit back on the couch.

Nothing happens.

I wait a few more seconds, just in case, then reach out and lift the lid, bracing myself for— I don’t know. Something, or maybe someone - maybe Barbara - to come climbing out like that creepy chick from _The Ring_.

But it’s just. Stuff. The exact same stuff I keep in the real box. There’s Aunt Val’s DVD. Half a dozen wristbands from some really good club nights with my boys. A payslip from the bar I worked at in… 2005, Jesus. Pens from college orientation. Some things Barbara left behind - hair ties, a bottle of nail polish, one earring.

I take everything out, line it up along the edge of the coffee table, but that doesn’t help. I move things around - order everything oldest to newest, group them up by people - but there’s nothing. No new ideas come to me, I don’t feel any different. Looking at it all, the most I feel is— hell, it’s not even a feeling, it’s more like a memory of a feeling. This echo of satisfaction, all faded now.

“I don’t want you to go away,” Arthur says, so suddenly that I blink and look around. He’s still in my bedroom. “I want to— try. With you. But I don’t know how, I don’t—” He lets out a shaky, humourless laugh. “God, I don’t even know how to say any of this to you.”

“Perhaps you should simply say that.” Eames’ voice is gentle. “It’s honest, at least. It’d be a start.”

“I can’t say that, I’d sound like an idiot,” Arthur replies. “He’d— laugh.”

“Perhaps,” Eames says again. “But perhaps he wouldn’t. And which would you prefer - knowing what he truly thinks of you and where you stand with one another, or simply pretending you do?”

Arthur doesn’t reply.

I look down at my small collection. Some of it, like Aunt Val’s DVD, I remember deciding to keep. (The Christmas she handed them out— that had been a good one. I’d landed steady shifts at the club, gotten a decent apartment, and my parents were finally off my back about finishing college. Good shit all around.) Most of it, though— I can’t remember when I put this stuff away. I can barely remember why.

So why am I hanging onto it all?

I frown. Scoop everything back into the box and carry it back into the bedroom. Arthur is standing in the same spot, staring at my bed. The Eames projection is gone. I have to say Arthur’s name three times before he looks up, and when he does, the words die in my throat.

The look on Arthur’s face— I’ve never seen it before.

I drop my gaze to the floor. “I was thinking, we should probably go,” I say. It’s all I can think to say. I go to put the box back on my shelf, then stop. I mean, what’s the point? It’s not the real thing, and even if it was— I set it down on the end of my bed. “Unless you’ve got something else you need to do?”

“I—” Arthur looks back at where Eames was sitting. “No,” he says. “Let’s wake up.”

 

* * *

 

We wake up.

I lay on the couch for a minute, staring up at the blank white ceiling and its fancy recessed lighting, while Arthur goes about removing his IV line, then mine, his expression faraway. Somewhere beyond him, there’s this clinking I’ve gotten used to hearing: Eames making a cup of tea.

“Successful fishing expedition?” Eames asks from the kitchenette as I sit up.

“I guess so. Maybe,” I say. “I found something, anyway.”

“Splendid,” Eames says. “Congratulations.” His tone is light as air, but he won’t take his eyes off his tea, stirring it in too-tight circles. Arthur is coiling up the IV lines just as tightly, although he keeps darting glances at Eames’ back.

I look back and forth between them while the silence balloons into a massive ball of awkward.

I clear my throat. “So… I’m gonna take off. Thanks for—” I gesture at the PASIV. “But I just remembered I’ve got some other stuff I need to take care of.”

“You sure?” Arthur says, but it sounds kind of— whatever. Half-hearted. Behind him, Eames’ shoulders tense up. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t—”

“Nah,” I say, one eye on Eames. “Nah, I’m good.”

I want to tell Arthur it’ll be fine, he’s got this - as long as he isn’t a total pussy about it, anyway - but I can’t exactly do that with Eames standing, like, six feet away, even if he does have his back to us. So I punch Arthur in the shoulder and pump my fist instead, hoping the message gets through.

Judging by the way Arthur stares at me, it doesn’t.

I nod at Eames, give Arthur my best meaningful look.

Arthur squints, his mouth puckering around a ‘what’ or maybe a ‘what the fuck’.

I roll my eyes. _Talk to him,_ I mouth. I point at Eames, open and close my fingers like a duck’s beak, and follow it up with a thumbs up.

Arthur’s eyes widen. He shakes his head, then stops, back going ramrod straight as Eames turns around, and I take the opportunity to peace out, waving goodbye over my shoulder.

As the door closes, I see Arthur take a deep breath and turn to face Eames.

 

* * *

 

I get back into my car and drive. No destination in mind, I just— drive. Drive and think. Think and drive. It’s the tail end of peak hour, but I avoid the main roads anyway, sticking to small side streets. The last thing I want right now is to be stuck in traffic again.

The sun goes down, night creeps in, and I just keep on driving. Every time I find myself heading in the direction of my apartment, I turn the steering wheel to the right. I do this over and over - home, away, home, away - travelling in a crooked zigzag across town, until I find myself cruising past the No Doze Diner.

I slow down. Pull up to the curb, switch off the engine. The neon ‘open 24/7’ sign glows, familiar and inviting, but even though I’m still hungry as hell, I just sit there, listening to the _tick-tick-tick_ of the engine cooling down.

And in the quiet, the thought sneaks up on me again: what am doing?

I can’t do this forever. The tank’s running low. I could fill up and drive around some more, but what’s the point? I’m gonna have to head home eventually. I’ll have to go back to work. I’ll have to face my family, my mom, and all her demands that I go back to church, go back to being the Jonny she knows. Go back and back, forever going fucking back.

I slump down in my seat, exhaustion sweeping through me.

Don’t you want more from life than this, Arthur asked me, and I _do_. I want more from this life, I want more from _myself_ , but how? Seriously, how? Trying to use the PASIV to find out was a wash. And if my own subconscious can’t show me what I want, then who the fuck can? No one, that’s who.

Maybe this is just the way my life’s meant to be. It’s like what they’re always saying at church, everyone’s got their cross to bear, right? Well, maybe this is mine. Not wanting this life, and just… living with it anyway.

I close my eyes, rest my head against the steering wheel. Give myself to the count of ten. Ten seconds, and then I’ll go back home and— back to everything else, too.

one. two. three.

It’s just. The thing is— I still don’t want to. I _can’t_.

four. five. six.

I can’t, not after everything I know now, not after everything I’ve experienced with Esther, with Arthur— hell, even with _Eames_.

seven. eight.

But if I can’t live this life and there’s nothing I else I want, then where am I supposed to go from here?

nine.

I’ve got nothing.

ten.

I open my eyes. Raise my head, breathe deeply. It doesn’t make me feel better, but it doesn’t make me feel any worse either, so. That’s good, I guess. I force myself to sit up, to reach for the ignition key.

I take one last look around, and as my fingers brush the key, I catch sight of the travel agency, with its breezy posters and stupid slogans. _Get out there. Your sense of adventure travels for free. It’s a big world - go explore. It’s easy to get away from it all when you’re riding on the edge of the world._

Now, though, with the street all quiet and dark, the posters don’t seem as stupid or annoying. Or maybe it’s because, with only the diner’s neon and one streetlight to see by, I find myself focusing on different words.

Get out. Go explore. Get away.

I can’t stop staring at them, even though I know— I mean, it’s still pretty dumb, right? It’s trust fund gap year bullshit. That’s for when you don’t have a job, no responsibilities or shit keeping you in place. That time’s passed for me.

But then there’s— like, what Eames said. About most limits being artificial and all that.

Then again, it’s all good for Eames to say that, he gives zero shits about the law or working a real job or anything. His solution for paying the bills would probably be forging a passport and fucking off to another country. For normal people, it’s not that easy.

I rub my thumb against the steering wheel, squinting at the ads for flights, cruises, package deals. Four-figure prices, most of them, but some three-figure ones, too.

Not that easy, but. Not impossible either.

I wrap both hands around the steering wheel. Gaze at the road, dark and stretching out before me, then start the engine.

Yeah. Not impossible.


End file.
